


Enemies Closer

by Laur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Egypt, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Biblical Reinterpretation, Blasphemy, Body Swap, Don't copy to another site, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Gen, Genderbending, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Noah's Ark, Oral Sex, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Slow Burn, Terrorism, World War II, Xenophobia, script book references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2020-10-19 07:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 69,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: He still wasn’t sure how he was going to explain this to head office. Probably something along the lines of keeping his enemies closer. Though ‘enemy’ didn’t seem to fit Aziraphale anymore. Certainly they were still Enemies, but Crawly had never put much stock in the whole hereditary destiny crap.[6000 years of Crowley adapting to humanity and this terrible, sneaky thing called love.]





	1. Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, all historical and biblical references I learned from Wikipedia.

**4004 BC**

Atop Eden’s eastern wall, Crawly hunkered under the angel’s sheltering wing, while in the distance Eve grasped Adam’s reaching hand. They stood side-by-side until the humans’ figures had been swallowed by the pouring rain and stretches of sand. By this point, even the angel’s mighty feathers were getting soggy.

A cool drop of water landed unpleasantly on the back of Crawly’s newly-human neck, and he gave a full-body shudder. “Well, show’s over I s’pose,” he said, inching a tad closer to the angel, out of the furiously pounding rain.

“Over?” the angel repeated, shouting a bit to be heard over the din of Earth’s first storm. He watched lightning split the sky with awe, the stone wall shuddering under their feet as thunder rumbled the ground. “But it’s only just begun!”

“Well, I don’t fancssy loitering up here,” Crawly hissed, flicking water from his wing tips. He squinted down at the garden, looking for a good tree to curl under. “Coming?”

“Coming where?”

Crawly stopped squinting at the trees to squint up at the angel, who was looking decidedly water-logged, his white-blond curls flattened to his head. Crawly’s own hair was still mostly dry, and his avid curiosity, the very curiosity that had expelled him from Heaven and drawn him to the Eastern Gate in the first place, reared its head. What an odd being this angel was, to have given away his sword against orders and was now sheltering a demon, his Enemy. By all rights, he didn’t seem very angelic at all. “To get out of the rain,” Crawly replied, thinking it obvious.

“Oh, dear,” the angel fretted, clutching his hands together, twisting the gold ring on his right pinky. “I really mustn’t abandon my post. I am the guardian of this gate, after all.”

“What’s to guard?” Crawly pointed out. “The humans are gone.”

The angel only shuffled, blinking against the rain that pelted his face. He frowned suspiciously and Crawly realized how it must look, a demon trying to tempt an angel from his duty. “I must wait for new orders then.”

Ah, there was that Heavenly blind-obedience, Crawly thought sardonically. Well, he wasn’t keen to wait around and argue the point. He grimaced as an icy finger of water slipped down his spine, wondering if he could slither down the same way he’d come up. Best not. “Suit yourself.” He found a suitable looking tree and shifted his focus inwards, imagining himself warm and dry under its leaves. 

Up on the towering wall of Eden, a soaking angel suddenly found himself alone.

**Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate.**

The booming voice of God woke the serpent from his slumber, glowing yellow eyes snapping upwards as pain tore through his scaly body. He hissed and writhed under the sudden torrent of yearning and grief, his entire being simultaneously crying out and cowering at the sound of his creator. It had been so long since he had heard Her voice.

**Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale, to guard the gate of Eden?**

Crawly slithered out from under the tree, not sure if he was trying to escape or get closer, and only stopped when he bumped into the Garden’s wall. There was a small gap in the stones, and Crawly lifted his head to peer through, tongue flicking out to taste ozone and holiness in the air. It burned his tongue.

“Sword? Right. Um.” That was the angel’s voice on the other side of the wall, Crawly realized. He listened as the angel spluttered and fumbled over his words. “Big, sharp, cutty thing, yes. Oh, must have put it down here somewhere.” The stinging light that filtered through the gap faded, and Crawly chased after it. It was a tight fit. “Forget my own head next. Oh, dear.”

With a hiss as some of his scales caught on the rough stone, Crawly poured out of the wall to curl in the damp sand by the angel’s feet. Though She was gone, Crawly’s body still shivered, whether from relief or despair he knew not.

“Azsssiraphale,” Crawly hissed, forcing his body up and up, changing into his human form as the angel yelped and clutched at his chest. “I never did get your name,” he said with his human mouth. “That didn’t sound good.”

Aziraphale’s face shifted between embarrassed and cross before settling on prim testiness. “Eavesdropping, were you? I suppose I should expect no better from a demon.”

Crawly raised his eyebrows and hands defensively. “Not my fault you woke me up.”

“Woke you…” Crawly watched with interest as the angel’s irritability faded into reluctant curiosity. “You were _sleeping_?”

Crawly shrugged. “Figured I’d give it a try. ‘S nice.”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes were wide and intrigued, and Crawly’s lips quirked, waiting for the questions, for the angel to indulge his own curiosity. Instead, Aziraphale cleared his throat and looked away. Crawly’s smile dimmed.

“Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it,” he said, leaning carelessly against the wall. At least he was going for careless – he wasn’t quite used to this whole ‘having limbs’ thing yet. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the angel waited impatiently.

At last, he huffed. “What does?”

“Well.” Crawly pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Seems to me the all-knowing Almighty should be well aware what happened to your sword. And if She already knows, why bother asking?” He watched with satisfaction as the angel spluttered. “Kind of a dick move really, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Aziraphale retorted, flustered, and Crawly tilted his head apologetically, eyes amused. He hadn’t had this much fun since…he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fun.

“Perhaps She was testing you?” he offered, only feeling a little badly when the angel’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Oh, oh, dear. Oh, no.”

A wave of bitterness washed over Crawly as he watched Aziraphale wring his neat hands. How _unfair_ it was, that Crawly had Fallen for his questions and curiosity, while this angel, who had just _lied_ _directly_ to God, was still graced with Her love.

It was all – what was that stupid word the angel had used – _ineffable_.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Crawly drawled, pushing himself off the wall.

Aziraphale turned desperate eyes on him, and the hope in them made Crawly pause. An angel shouldn’t look at a demon like that.

“If it were up to me,” Crawly said reasonably, “you passed with flying colours.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged with relief before he stiffened again, registering the meaning of those words from a demon’s mouth. “Oh, you wily –”

Crawly flashed a grin, which froze on his face when he heard a Hellish whisper from the sand. No, not the sand, deeper.

_Crawly…Crawly…come back…come down…_

“You wily serpent—”

“Ah, that’s my cue I’m afraid.” Crawly gave a friendly wave. “Sorry I can’t stay to chat,” he said, and was surprised to find he actually meant it. Aziraphale was _interesting_. “See you ‘round, angel.”

With a snap of his fingers, he was gone.

They threw him a party over the whole apple thing. Well, not a party, demons didn’t have parties, but they gave him a scattering of applause and Beelzebub looked less dour than usual. Hastur and Ligur, reluctantly impressed, gave him a commendation. Even Satan made an appearance, smiling at him with a malicious approval that made his human skin crawl. He wasn’t sure he liked all this attention. He felt a bit like a conjurer, using distractions and fancy gestures to disguise the fact that he didn’t actually know what the Heaven he was doing.

_It was too easy_, an anxious voice cried in the back of his head. _The apples were practically begging to be eaten._

Fortunately, Crawly’s strong sense of self-preservation silenced that voice, and he smiled rakishly as he told the story of Eve’s temptation for the tenth time.

He didn’t really fit in with the other demons, and what a disappointment that realization had been – not good enough to be an angel, but not really right for Hell either. He wasn’t too keen on the whole torture thing, the food wasn’t any better than in Heaven, and if any of the other demons had a sense of humour, it wouldn’t be Crawly’s. It was a relief, really, when Crawly was given an indefinite position on Earth.

The angel Aziraphale, he was told, had been placed on Earth to guide and protect the humans – that kind of thing couldn’t go unchecked. “Tempt the humans to do Evil, bring them closer to Darkness, you know. Keep up the bad work,” were his official orders. “Oh, and keep us updated. We’ll be in touch.”

_Get up there and make more trouble_, Crawly translated, and then they spat him back out on Earth.

Crawly spent the next few decades looking over his shoulder, because he still didn’t know what the Heaven he was doing. He eventually got the hang, more or less, of walking and coordinating his various limbs. It felt odd, sometimes, having his entire essence packed into a cumbersome meat sack, when he would look at his hands and experience a dissociating sensation that they belonged to someone else.

The humans were interesting and industrious, and Crawly was too busy learning to do much tempting. They squabbled and stole and hurt each other without much incentive from him.

He quickly realized that with an enticing word or a brush of hellish power, a human would easily give in to murder, as if they were only waiting for an excuse. He had been a bit surprised by Cain’s reaction actually – Crawly hadn’t really expected him to _kill_ Abel. As a whole, this was somewhat counterproductive: sure, the murderer was probably damned, but now there was one less human to work with. Much better to keep them both alive, whispering poison in their ears, getting them to hurt each other and everyone around them. That was just plain good organization.

Within a couple centuries, he was starting to get a comfortable routine going. A messenger from Hell would pop up every now and again with new orders and a cordial threat of evisceration, and Crawly would send back memos that were only slightly embellished. It wasn’t so bad, living amongst humans. He got to travel for work, saw lots of new things – an enviable perk for an immortal being – and could more or less do what he liked as long as he got the job done. His work-life balance was pretty dismal, but seeing as work-life balance wasn’t a concept yet, he couldn’t complain.

Besides, having a human body was _fun_. He could sleep, and eat things, and drink things, and wear clothes. The eating he mostly only did to be polite, but the _drinking_ – brilliant discovery, alcohol, truly, the humans had outdone themselves. He hadn’t gotten around to sex yet, but that was just because he had standards, he told himself. It seemed so clumsy and messy, and humans were almost always smelly and sticky and really, could a demon even _have_ sex with a human? All of the right bits were there, he was pretty sure, when he wanted them to be, but he was still a bit new to the whole thing and how embarrassing it would be if he managed to get himself discorporated while getting to Know someone.

It was therefore with considerable shock that he was called back to Hell for a meeting and was met with a small army of angels, strung up for having relations with humans.

“They did _what_?” Crawly asked in disbelief, bile rising at the smell of angelic wings scorched to skeletal cinders, their spirits shredded by holy fury and crushed by hellish indifference.

“So you didn’t know?” Beelzebub persisted, tapping their foot in irritation.

“That a bunch of angels were running around fucking humans? I wish I’d known.” He peered at the war-ravaged faces he could see, recognition flickering unpleasantly at some of them. “What are they doing here?”

“Michael’s pawned them off on us,” Hastur growled, watching Ligur flick every other angel with Hellfire, laughing when they flinched. “They’re going in the Pit.”

“Poor bastards.”

Three sets of demonic eyes flashed to him and Crawly gulped.

“I mean, if our lot did something like that, er, it’s practically admirable, impressive use of temptation and sin, really. I should be taking notes.”

Beelzebub only sighed in annoyance. An angel took the opportunity to kick Ligur, who bellowed and zapped them to a crisp. Crawly grimaced, made his excuses, and slipped back out the way he’d come in.


	2. 3004 BC

**3004 BC**

It was a thousand years after Eden that Crawly stumbled across Aziraphale for the first time. He was the first familiar face in ages that didn’t threaten him or try to kill him, and it was an honest-to-Satan relief to have a real conversation with someone who knew – more or less – what the fuck was going on.

And he had been curious about the flaming sword thing. He was a bit surprised that nothing had come of it, really.

“From what I hear, God’s a bit tetchy,” Aziraphale confided, and it was a testament to his uncertainty that he was confiding in a demon at all. “Wiping out the human race. Big storm.”

Crawly knew about the locals, of course. He was familiar with Noah and his family, thought the townspeople were a little rowdy, but nothing worth crying home about. Admittedly, Crawly had been tasked with shaking things up a bit around here, but had decided that the humans were doing well enough on their own and had faffed off for a nap this last month or so.

What had seemed like an amusing human quirk – a travelling zoo, how quaint – took on an entirely sinister tone.

“Not the kids, you can’t kill kids.”

Crawly had an almost-soft-spot for kids. Little mischief-makers the lot of them, practically did his job for him. If he weren’t a demon, the feeling he got when he saw a toddler having a hissy fit might have been called fondness. But he was, so it wasn’t. Not much point in tempting them, anyway – seemed like cheating. Not that Crawly had anything against cheating, but could a child really commit Evil when they didn’t know any better?

Punishing kids for the sins of adults wasn’t fair or merciful, but when had Heaven ever been either of those things?

Crawly’s horror only made Aziraphale work harder to justify God’s decision despite his obvious misgivings. It would be so easy, Crawly realized, to lure the angel away from Heaven. The seed of doubt was already there, all Crawly had to do was nurture it. He could imagine the praise he’d get Below for that.

There wasn’t time to think any further on it before the rain began. It started as a trickle and grew into a deluge, pounding down so hard it hurt. The water rose with a terrifying swiftness. In moments it was up to their ankles, the humans shouting in dismay and hiking up their robes.

Crawly grabbed Aziraphale by the arm and dragged him out of the crowd. “What’s your plan then?”

“My plan?”

The younger children began to cry and parents hoisted them up, out of the roiling water, holding them to their chests or on their shoulders.

“To get out of here!”

“Oh, I, uh,” Aziraphale stuttered distractedly, “don’t have one.”

Crawly stared incredulously. “Don’t tell me your lot stationed you here without a way out.”

“Well, I was never exactly stationed, _per se_,” the angel fretted. “All I got was a note and a non-interference order.”

“You idiot.” Crawly wondered if God would drown him and Aziraphale along with the humans. She wouldn’t think twice about a demon, but as the angel was thoroughly drenched, he realized She was not sparing Her loyal servant either. Good thing neither of them needed to breathe.

“What about you?” Aziraphale asked indignantly.

“_I_ didn’t know there was going to be a deadly flood, did I?”

As the water rose to their knees, true panic broke out. The humans scattered, wading for higher ground or for Noah’s boat, pleading for mercy. The youngest children would already be submerged if not for their frantically clinging parents.

The downpour forced the humans to shield their eyes and bow their heads, away from the Heavens.

_You could save them_, he wanted to scream at Aziraphale. How can you stand by and let this happen? What wickedness is truly deserving of this? But the angel was wringing his hands, face twisted with uncertainty as the humans thrashed and wailed, and the fury curdled into something dangerously close to pity. The death blow was swinging down on them and there was nothing either of them could do to stop it.

When the water passed their waists with no signs of slowing down, they were forced to spread their wings and take flight. Already the weak, the young, and the shorter humans were struggling, tilting their heads back as water lapped at their throats. As the angel and demon took to the skies, wings beating laboriously against the rain, some of the humans saw them and cried out, reaching for them, holding out their children.

A groan tore from the angel’s throat and Crawly turned to see him pressing both hands to his mouth. He ought to feel a sick satisfaction at seeing the angel so miserable.

“I’m not watching this,” Crawly said. “I’m leaving.”

Aziraphale said nothing, just shook his head and closed his eyes as if in prayer. Below them, the abandoned unicorn whinnied and swam, eyes white with panic. A child, held out by its mother, grabbed for the unicorn’s mane, dragging the creature down.

Over a thousand years of watching humans die and kill each other, an occult being became well practiced at distancing oneself to maintain one’s sanity. It was difficult to keep that distance when the humans weren’t doing the killing for once. 

“I’m leaving, angel,” Crawly repeated, not sure what he was waiting for. It was exhausting, flying against this Godly rain that insisted on bogging him down, impervious to his will.

“Go then!” Aziraphale shouted, opening his eyes to watch as the first human disappeared below the churning surface. The angel was sodden, shivering, but his eyes were fierce.

With a sound of disgust, Crawly grabbed his hand, fully intending on pulling him away.

“Let go of me, demon! I am a Principality, guide and protector of nations.”

“There’s nothing left to guide and protect here! At least let’s get to higher land.”

Aziraphale shook his head again, but allowed Crawly to tow him to a nearby hilltop, just visible through the rain. They stood side-by-side, a black wing sheltering a blond head, as the floodwaters rose. They watched from a distance as Noah’s ark was lifted by its watery cradle, floating amongst the human bodies and wreckage.

“It works,” Crawly blurted, a bit surprised, a bit encouraging.

“Thank God,” Aziraphale breathed in relief. “Er…”

“Really?” Crawly stretched out his wing, holding it more securely over the angel. He wasn’t being nice; he was just repaying a thousand-year-old favour. “How long is this rain meant to last, anyway?”

“I – I’m not entirely sure,” Aziraphale admitted, his shoulders quivering as if they ached to hunch against his perfect posture. “I was never consulted.”

“Time to move I suppose.”

“Where will you go?”

“You mentioned it’s safe in Australia? It’s hot there, I like it.” It was a far jump though, and he wasn’t sure he had the energy for it at the moment. He could always take a shortcut through Hell, but he tried to avoid seeing Hastur’s face more than once per decade if he could avoid it. “What about you?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. I should probably wait for my new orders.”

Crawly snorted. “What, here in the rain? Again?” This was just like Eden, the two of them standing in the rain, watching the consequences of God’s wrath. “All this water seems excessive really – the damage has already been done.”

“Why _must_ you insist on questioning –”

“All I’m saying is there doesn’t seem much point in waiting around here getting rained on. You could go anywhere and I’m sure your bosses will find you.”

_You could come with me_, he almost said. _Let me tempt you away from here._ He couldn’t quite get the words out. If he got Aziraphale sacked, Heaven would just send a replacement and they’d probably be boring.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“’Course I am.”

They stood in silence for a moment, both lost in their thoughts. Then Crawly grinned.

“Actually, think I’ll hitch a ride with Noah.”

Aziraphale peered up at him. “What? You can’t!”

Crawly gave him a look so bewildered it came off knowing. “Why not? I’m sure they’ve got room for one more snake like me.” Scales itched down his spine.

“I won’t have your demonic influence anywhere near a righteous man.”

“Sounds perfect for some wiling. I need the practice.”

“Practice!” the angel spluttered, voice high and offended. “I won’t let you defile Noah and his family.”

“Oh, no? And how will you stop me?” As he spoke, Crawly melted into his snake form and slithered into the rising waters. “I’ll fit in so well with the other animals.”

If snakes could smile, Crawly would have as he cut through the water towards the boat, listening to the angel dithering behind him. There was a billowing of air as Aziraphale took to the sky, and Crawly wondered if he intended to simply pluck him out of the water. With a hint of a hellish miracle, Crawly sped through the water like an arrow from a bow, body undulating with the waves. When his snout bumped the boat’s hull, he transported himself inside with a thought.

In the darkness of the boat’s belly, Crawly peered with glowing eyes at the various animals shuffling about, munching on straw, or pacing their stalls as the floor rocked. There were humans nearby, but they would give Crawly no mind as he searched for a warm corner to curl up and wait.

He didn’t have to wait long. With a sizzle and a thump, matter rearranged itself to plop out a waterlogged Aziraphale at his side, giving some nearby birds a fright.

“Hey, angel,” Crawly drawled. “Come to thwart me after all.”

“Well, someone has to,” he said stiffly, squeezing water from his robes. “My, is it dark.”

“Not for me.” Crawly tasted the air with his tongue, smelling the angel and animal musk. “At least it’s dry.” He laid his head down, inching as close to the angel’s heat as he dared. He hadn’t felt this warm since Eden. “Think I’ll take a nap before getting to work.”

“Ah, sloth,” the angel disparaged. “_Heaven_ is ever vigilant.”

“Are you encouraging me to do _more_ evil?”

Pausing from combing his fingers through his damp hair, Aziraphale frowned. “No?”

Crawly hissed out a laugh. The angel kept shifting and squirming, plucking at his damp clothes. “Oh, just miracle yourself dry already.”

“I’m only supposed to use miracles for work,” he fretted.

“For Hellsssake.” He blinked and the angel was dry, settling with a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank—”

“Don’t.”

“You know for a demon you’re really not so—”

“_Don’t_. If you think I won’t bite you, you’re wrong.”

Aziraphale clucked at him but let it be.

The serpent managed to slip into a light doze, but the memory of the angel’s confident grip on that flaming sword prevented him from a deep sleep. He mostly trusted that the angel wasn’t going to smite him, but he couldn’t be sure that Aziraphale wouldn’t try to contact his bosses, and Crawly had less than no desire to be around Gabriel and his lot.

He kept one eye on the angel, watching as he seemed to slip into some sort of meditative state for a couple hours before getting up with a sigh to wander amongst the animals. They were drawn to him like moths to flame – he wondered if he could get that analogy to catch on. The creatures brushed against the angel, basking in his warmth and grace, and Aziraphale gifted them with gentle pats and soothing words. At one point, Aziraphale allowed one of the snakes to wind up his arm, whispering endearments all the while.

He buried his face in his coils and fell asleep. 

The next morning, they peered at the rain through a small window in the ark’s hull, the water high enough to blanket trees.

“Suppose that’s one for my side.”

Aziraphale looked at him sharply. “I should have known this was your doing.”

“Whoa, whoa, you told me this was God’s doing.”

“To destroy the humans that _you_ corrupted!”

There was a thrum of actual anger in the angel’s voice and Crawly nervously shifted to his human form. Much easier to communicate body language that way. He lifted his hands placatingly. “I’m flattered you think I’m bad enough to corrupt an entire population of people, but I really wasn’t giving them much attention.”

The glow of righteous fury dimmed from Aziraphale’s skin. “You weren’t?”

“It’s a big world out there, angel, and I’m a busy demon.” He didn’t question why it was so important for Aziraphale not to blame him for the flood. It just was.

The glow went out as Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged. “The humans were simply wicked all on their own then.”

Crawly leaned against the wall, taking in Aziraphale’s unhappy expression. It didn’t suit him. “Seems a waste if you ask me. Yeah, there were a few bad apples, but rather than pick ‘em out She drowned the whole barrel.”

“Perhaps the whole barrel was already spoiled.”

“I find that hard to believe. I mean, how’d this bunch stay so pristine then?” Crawly waved vaguely around them.

“Perhaps they were the only ones worth saving.”

“Or maybe ineffability is just a fancy word for ‘can’t be bothered to sort through the barrel’.”

“Crawly!”

“Alright, alright!” he lifted his hands again. “Agree to disagree then.”

They fell silent, looking out at the unending rain.

“For the record, I’d still eat a bruised apple.”

Aziraphale peered at him. “I think this analogy has gotten out of hand.”

“Just saying.”

The rain continued for over a month. This was less than a blink to immortal beings, but it was awfully long to be cooped up on a boat with a travelling zoo. It was a bit awkward, in the way that two near-strangers are awkward when they become roommates and are forced to live in close proximity. Crawly mostly stayed as a snake and only ate the mice when they started to become pests, while Aziraphale cared for the animals and went miraculously undetected by the humans.

“Why don’t you just show yourself to them?” Crawly asked one evening, when he noticed how Aziraphale slumped against his stack of hay. For all that the angel claimed not to sleep, he sure looked like he could use some. “You know, the whole halo, glowing, ‘be not afraid’ rigmarole, they’d love it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to make a fuss,” Aziraphale said lightly, voice just a tad too high to ring true.

Inner ears pricking in curiosity, Crawly lifted his head. “You’re lying.”

A look of offense crossed the angel’s face. “I am not. Angels don’t lie.”

“Then you’re not telling the whole truth. Which is lying by omission. I would know, I’m a demon.”

A mouse scurried past Aziraphale’s feet and Crawly struck, jaw unhinging to swallow the rodent whole.

Aziraphale jumped. “Oh, _must_ you?”

Swallowing with difficulty, it was several minutes before Crawly could reply. “Circle of life.”

He would let the angel keep his secret for now. It would be fun to pull it out of him.

Crawly couldn’t sleep. The rabbits were going at it again and it was distracting. Aziraphale had miracled himself a little floating ball of light and was hunched over the beginnings of a basket he was weaving from straw.

“Hey, angel.”

“Hm?”

“Ever tried sex?”

The weaving stopped. “I’m sorry?”

“Intercourse. Procreation. The beast with two backs.”

The basket was carefully put down. “I know what sex is.”

“Well? Have you tried it?”

“Of course not.”

Crawly nodded thoughtfully.

“Have you?”

“Haven’t gotten ‘round to it yet. Why ‘of course’?”

“Well.” Aziraphale crossed his legs, hands clasped in his lap. “All the fuss with the Nephilim was a powerful deterrent.”

Crawly grimaced. “Fair enough.”

“Why do you ask?” his voice was very careful.

“Just curious.” It did not escape his notice that, in a boat full of paired creatures, they were the only non-human human-shaped pair.

Crawly did practice his tempting on the humans, mostly out of boredom. These humans had to be the holiest of the holy if God had decided to spare them, and he was not about to let this opportunity pass him by.

He started small.

“Oh, Shem,” Crawly cooed from a perch on the wall, planting the suggestion straight into the human’s brain. “You must be so tired; wouldn’t it be nice to have a resst?”

Shem paused from shoveling muck to yawn.

“Wouldn’t a long nap be jusst the thing?”

Shem put down the shovel to stretch. Aziraphale frowned from where he watched in the shadows, where the human’s gaze was unable to stray without being irresistibly drawn elsewhere.

“You can leave it for one of your brothers, then you can ssssleep.”

With a groan, the human shook his head and picked up the shovel, returning to his chores.

Aziraphale smiled smugly. “He is too good for your wiles, serpent.”

If a snake could shrug, he would have. “There’s always next time.”

There was a next time. The next day Crawly hissed temptations into Shem’s ear until the human leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and Shem came to with a start, immediately returning to his shoveling.

“Good thwart,” Crawly said sardonically, retreating.

“It was hardly that. Just a bit of a boost.”

The next time it took more than just a boost to convince Shem to finish the job.

“Oh, come on, angel, he’s tired,” Crawly wheedled, but Aziraphale only glared.

“I will not let you tempt this human to sloth.”

“Let’s make a bet,” Crawly offered, as Shem trudged off, bucket of animal shit with him.

“Angels do not bet.”

“A deal then.”

“No.”

“If I can get Shem to leave his task unfinished,” Crawly said, undaunted, “despite your thwarting, you will tell me why you don’t want the humans to know you’re here.”

There was a silence. “You won’t win.”

Crawly nearly crowed. That wasn’t a no. “If you win, I promise not to tempt any other humans on this boat.”

“A battle of wills, is it?”

Aziraphale was combing the mane of the lone unicorn and Crawly slithered up the beast’s leg, prohibiting it from spooking with a stern glare. “And human morals,” he said into Aziraphale’s ear. “I can’t see what’s so bad about taking a nap anyway.”

“Well, you wouldn’t,” Aziraphale retorted, which was no answer at all.

“Do we have an agreement?”

“Fine. But only because you won’t win. Good will always overcome Evil, in the end.”

Fangs flashed in a serpentine smile. “Sure thing, angel.”

It might have been because he was bored. Or maybe his restlessness was making him self-destructive. Whatever the reason, he thought ‘fuck it’ one evening, and sprawled next to Aziraphale in his human form.

“God, I could kill for a jug of wine right now.”

Aziraphale didn’t look up from where he was deftly pulling a length of straw through a hole made by other lengths of straw. “Crawly.”

“Figure of speech.” He brought a jug into existence with a thought, remembering a particularly sweet blend he’d had in Armenia recently. He poured the wine into the cup that appeared in his hand and took a healthy swig. “Care for some?”

Aziraphale watched him suspiciously. “I’ve never tried wine.”

“You’re missing out. Heaven wouldn’t approve, I assume?”

“There’s nothing inherently evil with wine,” Aziraphale countered. “It’s overindulgence that is frowned upon.”

Raising an eyebrow, Crawly downed his cup and poured himself another. “That so?” He brought another cup into existence while he was at it and passed it to the angel.

Aziraphale held the cup like he thought it might spontaneously combust. “I don’t know that I should.”

“Isn’t the whole sinning thing for the humans anyway? Shouldn’t you be above all that?” He found the best way to tempt Aziraphale was to break him down with logic. The angel wasn’t stupid, he was only very good at avoiding topics that made him uncomfortable.

“We try to follow a ‘practice what you preach’ mentality.”

“Huh. So do we.” Crawly grinned over his cup. “Not so different after all, eh?”

“Except in every way that matters.”

“Aw, we’ve really got a lot in common, when you think about it. Here we are, working on Earth, our respective bosses supervising from a distance. But they don’t _really_ know what it’s like around here. Not like you and me.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“We’re like puppets really, only our strings are going in different directions.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows tilted in consideration. He still held his cup in both hands. Crawly was working on his second – it wouldn’t do to get drunk and let his guard down around the Enemy. “I don’t feel like a puppet. That implies that I’m being forced.”

“Aren’t you? What would Heaven say if they gave you a job and you went, nah, not in the mood?”

“That wouldn’t happen. Doing Good and obeying Heaven are part of my very nature.”

Something about that seemed contradictory to Crawly, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. “Demons aren’t meant to have free will you know. At any rate, it’s hard to be a free thinker when there’s a risk of being tortured ‘til judgment day for disobeying. Or just because Ligur feels like it.”

“Those who are Fallen deserve to be punished.”

Crawly might have been offended if Aziraphale hadn’t sounded like a child repeating something they heard from their parents but didn’t really understand. Instead, it was just awkward.

“I’m just glad my puppet strings are fairly long,” Crawly concluded, brightly. “Here’s to long strings!” He clinked his cup to Aziraphale’s in a toast and brought the cup to his lips. Aziraphale mirrored him, though his expression was dubious, and took a small sip.

His eyes widened. “Oh! What a curious flavour.”

“You really haven’t tried it before?”

“I’ve tried food,” Aziraphale admitted. “And water. Just to fit in with the humans.”

Crawly watched, intrigued, as Aziraphale took another sip, eyes fluttering closed to savour the flavour. His expression was almost rapturous. “Good, huh?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Human taste buds are _such_ a delight.”

Crawly made an inarticulate sound of agreement. Aziraphale, he discovered, became considerably more talkative with some wine in his system, happily chatting his ear off about this and that, things he had discovered about humans, beautiful places on Earth. His expressive face was alight with passion and delight and Crawly couldn’t tear his gaze away. He considered keeping the angel’s cup miraculously full, but the sin of gluttony wouldn’t count if Crawly tricked him into it.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale said apologetically, when he went for a sip and found his cup empty. “I’ve been going on, haven’t I?”

“I had no idea you felt so passionately about human writing systems.”

The angel appeared flustered, a bit pink from the drink, and Crawly was thinking of animal pairs again.


	3. 3004 - 2065 BC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was sitting in a small inn, sipping on the best drink that the city of Sodom had to offer and minding his own business, when he felt it – a cold tingle in the air that made his hair stand on end. Holiness.

Crawly had come to enjoy their bouts of wiling and thwarting. If occult beings such as themselves danced, Crawly thought it would feel something like this, angelic and demonic power circling and reaching, the human tugged between them. He could taste the angel in the air, feel their power scuffing and grinding against the other, the friction leaving sparks in his brain.

“Just make your brother Ham do it, he’ll listen to you,” the darkness oozed.

“Ham has his own obligations to fulfill,” the brightness sizzled.

Shem was only half done and already he was slowing down, the darkness encroaching.

“Come now, dear boy, you can do it,” Aziraphale encouraged desperately.

“It’s not a big deal,” Crawly countered, knitting temptations into the human’s brain. “Go ssleep and let Ham do the resst. You wouldn’t be hurting anyone.”

Shem put down the shovel.

Aziraphale stepped closer. “You must finish your task! To shirk your responsibilities is to invite laziness.”

“It’ss not your fault you’re tired. You work sso hard, every day. You dessserve a ressst.”

Aziraphale grimaced, missing his volley. Hard to counter a point you secretly agreed with.

“You dessserve it,” Crawly hissed, and the darkness folded over the human.

Shem took the half-full bucket and trudged off, the surging power in the air fading away. A section of the stalls was still filthy and neglected.

Crawly did a celebratory wriggle. “Yess!”

“Oh, hush, you.”

Crawly slithered over to tangle Aziraphale’s ankles. “I win.”

“Only because I felt bad for messing about with him so much. He was getting confused, poor lad.”

“I still win. Now spill, angel.”

“Spill what?”

Crawly shifted into his human form to lounge on a stack of hay. Much easier to lounge when you had limbs. “You know what. Why don’t you want the humans knowing you’re here?”

“Why don’t you?” the angel countered, face pinched. He occupied himself with cleaning the remaining stalls, muck clearing away with each flick of his fingers.

“Because humans who walk with God don’t take kindly to demons. You’re enabling him, you know.”

“I’m not enabling, I’m being kind. To answer your question, I don’t want to cause a ruckus.”

“Nope. Try again.”

Aziraphale whirled to face him. “I’m telling the truth!”

“Oh, c’mon, you’d be happy making a ruckus if it meant you didn’t have to sit in animal shit every day. I’m sure Noah would welcome you with open – oh, my God.”

“Language.”

Crawly nearly fell off his haystack. “You don’t want to mingle with the humans!”

Aziraphale looked at his clasped hands.

“That’s it! What, do you think you’re better than them?”

“No!”

“I mean, pride’s a bit unbecoming –”

“It’s not that.”

“What then? Don’t you like them?”

“I’m an angel. Of course, I love the humans.”

“That’s not the same as liking them.”

“I love all of God’s creations. Even you.”

Crawly had been on a roll and now he stumbled. If speed bumps had been invented he would have compared Aziraphale’s comment to one. He persevered. “But you don’t _like_ them.”

It made so much sense. Embarrassingly, Crawly did like humans despite his demonic status. Sometimes, the youngest humans would come down to play with the animals and Crawly would join them, nosing at their hands and slithering onto their shoulders. He could squeeze them to death, but he didn’t. They’d giggle and squeal as Crawly’s forked tongue tickled their cheeks, and pet his head fondly when it was time to go for dinner.

“Checking for evil,” Crawly had said once, when Aziraphale caught him. “Gotta start them young, y’know.”

And, “Just trying to decide which one to eat,” the second time, when Aziraphale had watched with a perplexed look on his face.

“They’re just so…confusing,” Aziraphale admitted now, twisting the ring around his finger.

Crawly burst into peals of real, delighted laughter, a rare thing these days. An angel, sent to guard and protect humans, who didn’t even like his charge. “Incredible,” he wheezed. 

Aziraphale squirmed in discomfort, fussing with his immaculate robe. Dirt didn’t dare cling to the fabric. “It’s not that I dislike them. They have the capacity for such goodness, and they create beautiful art, and they can be quite ingenious when they put their minds to it, but…”

“But?” Crawly prompted eagerly.

“Well, they’re a bit difficult to talk to. They can be awfully close-minded. And they make the oddest choices.”

_Maybe you’re the one that’s close-minded_, Crawly managed not to say.

“And they change so quickly it’s impossible to keep up. By the time I’ve finally got the hang of whatever new custom, or clothing, or music they’ve come up with, they’ve moved onto the next thing!”

Crawly found the rate of human change rather exciting, but then he’d always been bored of Heaven’s stasis. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” he said, still snickering. “Unless it makes you feel better.”

Aziraphale made a sour face. “You can be very trying.”

Crawly gave a little bow. 

It wasn’t the rabbits for once. This time, it was the snakes, and somehow that made it worse.

“Would you stop that,” Crawly hissed, as the snakes twisted and turned around each other like a perverted pretzel.

“Stop what?”

“Not you. Them.” Crawly pointed at the copulating couple.

“Oh, leave them be.” Aziraphale had his wings out, which seemed inappropriate. He had attracted the birds to him with his holiness, and now a small flock surrounded him, using their beaks to preen his long, white feathers. “It’s only natural.”

“It’s _rude_. They know what they’re doing.”

“I should hope they wouldn’t need instructions,” Aziraphale said, completely deadpan.

Briefly at a loss for words, Crawly turned his back on the snakes and crossed his arms, watching the birds smooth out angelic feathers, gently tugging out the ones that came loose. “Why are you letting them do that?”

Aziraphale looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t I? They’re professionals. And they can reach all the difficult places.”

Crawly watched the birds work methodically through Aziraphale’s feathers, while behind him the snakes hissed and slithered together obscenely. In his lap, Aziraphale cradled a crow, gently combing its night-black feathers with his soft fingers. It was a mesmerizing sight and Crawly found himself idly wondering how it would feel if he were to take the crow’s place.

_Oh, shit._

He quickly extracted and burned the thought, but it had taken root and would wind its way back eventually.

“Shit,” he said aloud, and Aziraphale gave him an odd look. Scrambling to recover, Crawly plastered on a leering expression. “You cleaning up for my benefit? Pretty sure pride is a sin.”

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” the angel countered haughtily. An owl plucked out a rumpled feather and hooted in apology when Aziraphale shivered. “Quite all right, my dear. Oh, what a marvelous job you all have done!” He stretched out his immense wings, puffing up his neatly arranged feathers, while the birds flitted and chirped around him. With a gesture, Aziraphale conjured some seeds and grains, which he sprinkled on the floor for his avian friends.

Crawly barely resisted the urge to set the snakes on them.

“For work only, huh?”

“I think a little flexibility is not uncalled for, given the circumstances.”

The thought of flexibility and the circumstances that might call for it circled Crawly’s brain all night. For all that Aziraphale projected rigidity, he wondered if it was only to conceal his willingness to bend with proper motivation.

The rain stopped after forty days and forty nights. The sudden cessation of sound woke Crawly from his slumber. He lifted his head and joined Aziraphale to peer out the little window.

“Finally,” he hissed, shifting to his human body. He couldn’t wait to fly out of here. He didn’t even care where he went, as long as there was actual civilization. “If I had to watch one more weird animal mating ritual I was going to throw someone overboard.”

“Some of them _are_ rather odd, aren’t they.”

“Did you see the giraffe go for it that one time?” Crawly snickered.

“They do have alarming proportions.”

“Design flaw, if you ask me. Why not just make the trees shorter?”

“God has Her reasons for everything.”

“Maybe She’s got a sense of humour after all,” Crawly snarked, nudging the angel’s shoulder with his elbow. “Anyway. It’s been a wild ride.” He stepped back and unfurled his wings into the Earthly plane, shaking them out with a groan. He should have taken Aziraphale’s advice and got the birds to preen him, too, he was feeling a little raggedy.

“You know, you’re not what I expected from a demon.” Aziraphale had turned from the clearing sky to look at him, the first new rays of sun catching on his blond eyelashes, flashing across his bright hazel-blue eyes.

Crawly did not ask what he had expected. It was probably something like ‘meaner’ or ‘scarier’ and his reputation really could not take that kind of hit. “Yeah, you’re not what I expected from an angel, either.”

He still wasn’t sure how he was going to explain this to head office. Probably something along the lines of keeping his friends close and his enemies closer. Though ‘enemy’ didn’t seem to fit Aziraphale anymore. Certainly they were still Enemies, but Crawly had never put much stock in the whole hereditary destiny crap.

“Oh, look, Crawly!”

Crawly looked. Outside, as the storm clouds retreated, an immense band of colours shimmered into existence. The whole spectrum of visible light – visible to humans anyway – streaked through the sky.

“Is that…?”

“The rain-bow!” In his excitement, Aziraphale’s wings burst from his back, nearly knocking into Crawly and forcing him back with a grunt. “Let’s get a closer look!” In a blink he was gone.

With a huff Crawly followed, transporting outside and beating his wings hard, flying up to the angel’s side to hover in the air and look at the shimmering miracle from the Heavens.

“Oh, isn’t it _beautiful_?” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, his mouth agape, hands clasped in front of his chest as he took it in.

It was rather pretty, Crawly could admit. He’d been part of the celestial creation team; he could appreciate art when he saw it. Bit gawdy though too – really, _all_ the colours? It was nice enough as far as symbols and promises went, but it didn’t come close to making up for wiping out an entire land of humans. Nothing would ever be worth that.

It seemed unnecessarily cruel to dampen the angel’s enthusiasm, though.

“Yeah, s’alright.”

“Oh, almost forgot!” With a complicated gesture, a dove appeared in the angel’s hands, cooing as Aziraphale enchanted it with some miracle. “There’s a good fellow,” he said, and released the bird, watching it fly back to the boat.

“What was that for?”

“Just a little something to help the humans find their way.”

They went their separate directions after that. Crawly was overdue for his next report anyway.

He went to Australia and China and the Americas, where he tempted and wiled and watched history repeat itself. Humans were born, they did things or they didn’t, they loved and they fought, and then they died. Populations swelled and dwindled, dynasties flourished and fell, battles were won and lost. Through it all Crawly left his mark. For the first while, he continued using the old standbys – encouraging tyrannical leaders, tempting the devout, inspiring the wicked – but as the humans multiplied, he found the traditional demonic methods were inefficient.

Crawly’s inspiration came mostly from paperwork – more specifically, how much he hated doing it. As far as he was concerned, the inventor of papyrus deserved an expedited trip to Hell and an extra decade in the Pit for every report Crawly was forced to write.

While slouched in a damp, cluttered cave in Hell, writing out his list of deeds for the last year, he had an epiphany. What if, instead of doing targeted temptations, getting one human at a time, he could create one small disturbance that rippled out to infect an entire group of them? It was genius, it was diabolical, it would shorten his reports exponentially.

He looked forward to telling Aziraphale about his breakthrough the next time he saw him.

**2065 BC**

Unfortunately, the next time Crawly saw Aziraphale there wasn’t much opportunity to chat.

He was sitting in a small inn, sipping on the best drink that the city of Sodom had to offer and minding his own business, when he felt it – a cold tingle in the air that made his hair stand on end. Holiness.

With a clatter, he dropped his cup and stood, his chair nearly tipping backwards. Ignoring the startled humans around him, he strode out of the inn and took to the streets, keeping his back to the walls and his body in the shadows. As he walked, the tingling got stronger and he hissed quietly, heart in his throat.

Were they after him? Why? He hadn’t even done anything yet! He’d come here on a lark, because he’d heard that the wine was worth the inhospitality of the people, and a demon could use a break every now and again.

Holding his breath, he backtracked and slipped down another alleyway, reaching out with his senses to feel the energy around him. It seemed to come from everywhere, a holy judgement that pressed in on him and made his head ache. He blessed to himself and changed direction again, looking for a way out, anywhere to slip away unnoticed. He’d nearly been discorporated a few hundred years ago and he did _not_ want a repeat of the experience.

The holiness spiked and before Crawly could react, he was gripped by the back of his tunic and dragged into a dark dwelling. With a hiss he turned on his attacker, fangs bared and tongue flicking out, the familiar scent hitting him the same instant his back hit the wall.

“_Crawly_!” Aziraphale exclaimed quietly, releasing him. “I should have known you would be here.”

Heart thundering in his chest, Crawly pushed off the wall and shoved the angel back. “What were you thinking, accosting a demon like that?”

Aziraphale ignored him, mouth downturned and eyes pained. “You have damned these people – I ought to smite you where you stand.”

“What are you talking about?” Crawly snapped, roughly pushing his hair out of his face. “I’m on vacation.”

The angel faltered, eyes widening. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

With a sharp intake of breath, Aziraphale turned away from him, peering out the window through a small gap in the slats. Then he turned, pushing at Crawly’s shoulders. “You must leave!” Aziraphale insisted shrilly, ushering him through the house and to a backdoor. “They’re coming, and if they find you here, you’ll be destroyed.”

“_Who’s_ coming, angel?”

“Sandalphon and the others! If you escape now with Lot you may get away undetected.”

As Aziraphale pushed him through the door Crawly turned and gripped him by the arms. The evening sun threw into sharp relief the anxious topography of his face.

“_Explain_.”

Biting his lip, eyes darting down the street, Aziraphale whispered, “The people here are teeming with sin. The Almighty has ordered for the cities to be destroyed, but Lot and his family are being spared. Find them –”

“_Aziraphale?_”

The angel jumped and looked back through the house from where the call had come.

“_I smell Evil. Where are you?_”

“_Run!_” Aziraphale shoved the demon away and closed the door in his face.

For a heart-stopping moment, Crawly nearly dove back inside after him.

“Idiot,” he hissed to himself and fled. He ran through the streets quick as a shadow, shrouding himself with magic and cloak both. He was nearly intercepted twice, swerving around pockets of holiness as the scent of smoke began permeating the air.

He spotted the escaping family just as they exited the city bounds. He ran after them, feet pounding on the dirt, screams erupting behind him. Whether it was his own approach that attracted her attention or the sounds of human suffering, one of the humans looked back. The fires ravaging the city reflected in her wide eyes, then her gaze shifted to Crawly.

There was a flash of light and Crawly froze, waiting for the pain, for the fall, for the nothingness. The light faded and he opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them, to find the human woman gone. In her place stood a crystalline column, crumbling at the edges.

The human who had been running beside her began to turn, looking for her, and Crawly transported himself to his side in a blink.

“Don’t look!” He pushed the human onwards, away. “Keep running!”

They ran until they couldn’t any longer, and then they walked until close to collapse. The three remaining humans huddled together, weeping bitterly at the loss of wife and mother, and Crawly left them, walking out into the desert alone.

He walked through the night, looking up at the stars, more shaken than he could admit. Shaken by how close he had been to discorporation or worse, shaken by how Aziraphale had saved him, shaken by the reminder of the flood. Whether fire or water, the result was the same – a whole barrel of apples, save a select few, pounded into mush.

“This is getting old!” he shouted at the night sky, his voice swallowed by the never-ending sand.

When the sun rose he kept walking, letting the sun-hot sand burn his feet, his confusion turning to anger turning to fear. What did it mean that Aziraphale had saved him? Was it a sign of darkness in the angel or a mark of light in the demon? Was there a holiness in Crawly that Aziraphale had seen? What would Hell do if they knew he had been protected by an angel? He’d seen what they did to demons who veered too close to ‘nice’.

“This is it, eh?” he croaked. “Too bad to be an angel, but good enough to be saved by one. What kind of twisted torture is that?”

He shuddered, realizing his mouth was sandpaper dry, his feet blistered from the heat.

He would have to be more careful.


	4. 1392 BC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale looked the same as ever, though he’d updated his robes at some point in the last century, but what struck Crawly were his eyes. He had adopted the local custom of kohl along the eyelids, which had the dual purpose of preventing infection and enhancing one’s appearance. His eyes were sapphires in pools of ink, radiantly blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. Ancient Egypt was a fascinating place.

**1392 BC**

Crawly woke with first light but did not rise, basking in the sun as it crawled into the sky and crept across his bed. Such moments of calm were few and far between for a demon. When the sunshine licked at his face and pricked his eyes, he rolled off his reed mattress and stood, stretching sinuously.

He padded through his bedroom nude, save for the jewelry and kohl he never bothered to remove. As he crossed his doorway he snapped his fingers, willing a fine linen skirt to wrap around his waist, decorated fashionably if not ornately. A human of his status – rather, the type of human he had been pretending to be for the last month – would begin his morning with the ritual of bathing, sitting in a tub and pouring oil-scented water over himself. If he were posing as a richer human, he would have servants to do this for him. He would then apply the various perfumes and creams and makeup for the day, and perhaps finish his look with a wig for special occasions.

Crawly had a bathtub that he never used, creams and perfumes and makeups that he never applied. He wore his hair short to match current trends, but kept his own, and he had no servants to speak of. Nonetheless, his appearance and hygiene were impeccable, his scent was rich and heady with the most expensive spices, and his skin impervious to the hot sun.

He did not pause for breakfast before exiting his home, stepping out into what promised to be a hot day. As he strolled through the streets, he attracted stares of lust and envy both, and felt a smile tugging at his lips. The morning markets were already in full swing, stalls overflowing with fruits and produce and spices, sold by locals and travellers both. When the locals caught his reptilian eyes, they jumped to offer him their goods free of charge, while the migrants and travellers shied away. He ignored all of them, save to commit the little acts of mischief that were second nature to him by now.

A budding disagreement erupted into a loud argument, one man pushing the other into a stall, scattering baskets of figs and onions. An impoverished youth suddenly found the courage to dart forward and snatch some, making a miraculous escape while the owner yelled at the squabbling men. An unhappily married woman was offered flowers by a beautiful young man and was overcome with happiness that would fester into doubt. A jealous seller found a broken staff that would be perfect for sabotaging his neighbour’s radish wagon.

Crawly was enjoying himself here. The entire country was bustling with trade and art and innovation. There was enough wealth disparity to keep a demon busy dolling out the corruption and greed, enough vanity that he barely had to lift a finger, and just enough of a justice system to fuck with for brownie points back home.

As was his custom every other day, Crawly made his way to the huts of the laborers and slaves, the people who were bound through debt, war, crime, or birth. Many had left already, gone to their work in the fields, stables, and houses of their masters, but some still remained, finishing their morning rations or returning from bathing in the Nile.

Crawly ambled through these captive humans, sowing seeds of wrath, envy, and pride.

Wrath, in the hearts of the newly bound family, whose eldest son was exhausted from his daily, gruelling work.

Envy, in the starving laborers, who eyed their better-fed neighbours hungrily.

Pride, in the young maid, whose knees were bruised from cleaning her master’s house every day.

These seeds he planted into their minds, whispers of dissent and discord, rumblings that spread like a weed through the captives. The family would make a grievance and request to leave their master. The laborers would steal from their neighbours and fights would break out. The young maid would consult with the rest of the house staff, thoughts of rebellion in their hearts.

Feeling accomplished, sharp grin in place, Crawly was about to make his way to another group of dwellings when a child spotted him and darted to his side. The people knew him by his eyes, whispers of _Apep_, Evil Spirit, and Chaos brushing against him wherever he went, their fear and curiosity and hope sinking into his skin. Crawly neither encouraged nor discouraged these names.

The child wore the clothing and hairstyle of all youth, making it impossible to identify their sex with any level of confidence. Crawly didn’t bother trying. 

“What do you want?” he asked.

Dark eyes gazed up at him, cowed for a moment before the child found their voice. Brave kid. “There is a visitor with Mother. From a far away land.”

“What for?” Visitors did not come here, unless it was to finish a transaction. Occasionally there were healers, or officials with bags full of bread to be distributed, but this was not the place a traveller would pass through.

“To _bless_ Baby Brother.”

They said the word with bemusement and Crawly felt a shiver down his spine. “What does this visitor look like?”

The child tugged on his skirt, leading him to their hut. “He has _white hair_!” they whispered conspiratorially, as if divulging a heinous secret.

Apprehension in every line of him, Crawly allowed himself to be nudged into one of the small huts, where the cries of a very new human could be heard. Inside, sitting on a reed mat, were an exhausted mother and a tutting angel.

“There, there, little one,” Aziraphale cooed, his aura spiking with angelic light as he took the infant in his arms.

Crawly’s shadow fell over them and both angel and mother looked up, Aziraphale’s eyes widening in surprise. Crawly felt his own eyes widening as well. Aziraphale looked the same as ever, though he’d updated his robes at some point in the last century, but what struck Crawly were his eyes. He had adopted the local custom of kohl along the eyelids, which had the dual purpose of preventing infection and enhancing one’s appearance. His eyes were sapphires in pools of ink, radiantly blue.

In his distraction, he was too slow to stop Aziraphale from blurting, “Crawly!”

Crawly grimaced, silencing him with a glare. He did not go by that name here. 

The mother reached for her older child. “Where have you been?” she scolded.

“I brought lucky snake man,” the child whispered, and that was a nickname Crawly hadn’t heard yet. The mother hushed the child sharply and glanced at Crawly uneasily. “I apologize for my daughter’s disobedience. She has too much curiosity for her own good.”

“It’s fine.”

The woman glanced between the two man-shaped beings. “Do you know each other?”

“No,” Crawly said smoothly, breaking his gaze away from the angel. “I fear your guest was mistaken.”

Chastened, Aziraphale managed a strained smile. If it weren’t for the baby in his arms, he would have been fidgeting. “Apologies. You reminded me of a…um, well, someone else.”

“What are you doing here?” Crawly asked, and the rudeness had Aziraphale smiling in awkward apology at the humans.

“I have come to impart blessings and good health on this _beautiful_ baby,” Aziraphale gushed, this last directed at the mother, who smiled tiredly.

“Won’t you join us?” the mother offered, and Crawly sat with a sigh. Best to figure out why the angel was poking into his affairs. _Lucky snake man_ indeed. “This is Azir. He came to us with a message from the Gods.”

“Ah, yes.” The baby was fussing again and Aziraphale grimaced as the tiny human wriggled in his arms. He was holding him all wrong. Crawly watched in amusement for a moment before taking pity on him.

“Oh, give him here.” When Aziraphale hesitated, Crawly looked to the mother. “May I?”

“Please. It has been so hot and he won’t stop crying.”

The daughter, sat by her mother’s side, nodded agreement. “He’s so annoying.”

With an amused huff, Crawly took the infant from a reluctant Aziraphale, letting the small weight settle in his cool arms. Immediately, the baby quieted and everyone exhaled in relief.

“How did you…?”

“Cold-blooded.” Crawly flashed the angel a grin, which faded when he saw the soft look on Aziraphale’s face. “You ever breathe a _word_ of this to anyone—” He let the threat hang while Aziraphale blinked and raised his hands.

“Of course not.”

The baby didn’t seem all that spectacular, other than being wretchedly adorable. It was still a tiny bundle of crying, shitting human. “What’s so special about this one, anyway?”

“He is destined to do great things,” Aziraphale confided, with such a beatific smile that the humans appeared rather dazzled. Crawly could relate.

“He’s born into slavery,” Crawly countered, offering a finger to a waving baby fist. “Destined to be a slave.”

“It’s all part of the Great Plan,” Aziraphale said with forced cheerfulness. “We may not understand _why_ things happen,” he directed to the mother, “but rest assured there is a very good reason.”

Aziraphale’s gaiety contrasted so sharply with the reality in which the humans found themselves – in a tiny hut, barely enough food to eat, the father beholden to a master, and their freedom stripped from them – that it came off as cruel.

“The great Ineffable Plan,” Crawly muttered drily.

“Precisely.” Aziraphale reached out a hand to stroke the baby’s bald head with a gentle thumb, angelic power flowing into the human at his touch.

Crawly inhaled sharply, the cool wash of the miracle radiating through the human and into his skin. It blanketed him, enclosing his Graceless body in wings of divine Love, a Love he had never expected to feel again. He breath stopped. He nearly dropped the baby as he fought not to sway. Then a thread of darkness wound through the fabric, spoiling the tapestry with dread. Crawly looked up and met Aziraphale’s gaze, finding sadness in the lines around his eyes.

It was over a moment later, Aziraphale taking his hand away and Crawly returning the baby to his mother. They left the family soon after, Aziraphale gifting them with breads and fruits from a satchel he hoisted over one shoulder.

“What the Heaven was that?” he hissed, as they left the hut, attracting curious looks.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t,” he snapped, “play dumb with me. That baby is in danger. I felt it.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes.”

“And you’re not going to save him?”

“What do you think I was just doing?”

“So, what? You’re just going to leave him and hope the miracle works out?”

Offence crossed Aziraphale’s face. “Excuse me, but my miracles are not as chancy as all that. Besides, it’s all part of the Plan. I can’t interfere.”

“Oh, right, how could I forget? What?”

Aziraphale was looking at him oddly. “Why do you care so much?”

Crawly scowled, stumbling over meaningless consonants and vowels. “Just seems inefficient,” he managed at last. “Why’s this kid so important anyway?”

Looking away, Aziraphale walked on. “I already said.”

“Oh, right, ‘great things’, sure. What does that even mean?”

“If you must know, he’s meant to be a prophet of some sort. That’s all Gabriel told me. These dwellings are quite shabby, aren’t they? They could use a little decorating.”

It was difficult to tell if Aziraphale was being deliberately obtuse or if he really was blind to the conditions these people were living in. “They don’t really have a choice, Aziraphale. Or should I say Azir?”

“Still,” Aziraphale said primly. “Best to keep your chin up. Are those markets up ahead?”

With a sigh, Crawly followed the angel into the main streets, watching his joyful smile as he fawned over painted pottery, paused to appreciate bouquets of flowers, and stopped at a stall to buy fruit.

“Been here long?” Aziraphale asked Crawly as he passed the merchant a small sack of grain in exchange for a bunch of grapes.

“A few weeks.”

“Would you care for some?” Aziraphale asked, plucking a grape from its stem. “They’re delicious.”

Crawly shook his head, satisfied just watching Aziraphale’s bliss as the grape’s sweet juice exploded on his tongue.

“It’s g – a surprise to see you,” Aziraphale stuttered. “After that whole mess in Sodom, I wasn’t sure…”

“I never thanked you for that.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale, swallowed another grape and glanced over at him. “Think nothing of it.”

That angelic humbleness prickled. They hadn’t seen each other since that night, and it wasn’t as though Crawly had been thinking about it for the last 700 years, but he hadn’t _not_ thought about it either. “Why’d you do it, anyway? Let me escape?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.” As if it were the most obvious thing in the world, an angel sparing a demon.

“Saving _me_?”

“Well,” he said, a tad irked. “I’m an angel.” As if that were a point for rather than against him.

And wasn’t that just the thing. Aziraphale didn’t seem to know what being an angel typically entailed. He figured that just because _he_ did it, and he was an angel, that that was something an angel would do.

It didn’t have anything to do with Crawly at all, he realized. The angel was just _that nice_. He probably would have done the same for _Hastur_. It ought to have been a relief. 

“What have you been up to here anyway?”

Reaching over, Crawly stole a grape, popping it in his mouth. “Supposed to be tempting the Pharaoh. Doesn’t need much help in that department, so I’ve been cultivating unrest amongst the people.”

“You could have just asked,” Aziraphale grumbled, holding his remaining grapes closer to his chest. Crawly grinned at the covetous gesture. Then Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “The Pharaoh, you say?”

“Yeah. Why?” A sudden worry wormed its way into Crawly’s chest. He’d been being _careful_, lately, to complete all his jobs. “You’re not here to bless him, too, are you? Look, this is an important assignment for me and I’m not really—"

“I’m not here for the Pharaoh, though it sounds like he could use a blessing, too. My main assignment is his daughter.”

“What’s she got to do with anything?”

“Something to do with the baby, dreadfully important apparently, not that anyone will give me any details.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow at his tone.

“Not that I need all the details,” he quickly backtracked. “I’ve been told all I need to know, I’m sure.”

“Sure,” Crawly agreed, and toppled a precarious pile of clay pots with a flick of the wrist.

“Oh, goodness,” Aziraphale exclaimed, and not a single pot broke, miraculously. A group of humans helped the owner reorganize his wares, which wasn’t really what Crawly had been going for.

“It’s too bad that I know the Pharaoh and you don’t.”

Aziraphale gave him an exasperated look. “It is too bad.”

“I’m even meant to meet with His Majesty today.” Crawly turned a corner and Aziraphale followed automatically. “Of course, I can’t help you.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale agreed. “How could a demon help an angel?”

Crawly nodded, lower lip pouting in consideration. “We could always make a deal.”

Aziraphale nearly choked on a grape, swallowing hard. “No. I do not make deals with the Devil.”

“You flatter me.” Crawly shot him a sly grin, leading the way down another street. “Don’t you wanna know what I have to offer?”

“Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

Crawly shrugged agreeably. “Alright. Only it’s notoriously difficult to get a meeting with the Pharaoh. He doesn’t take kindly to outsiders, you know.”

Aziraphale was silent. He ate his last grape, but didn’t seem to enjoy it.

“If only you knew someone who could put in a good word for you, get you past his guards.”

With a grimace, Aziraphale looked around for a place to dispose of his bare grape stem. Reaching over, Crawly plucked it from his grasp and chucked it into the street. Aziraphale sighed.

“What would this hypothetical deal entail, exactly?”

“Keep your angelic fingers off the Pharaoh. And have a drink with me after.”

Aziraphale watched him narrowly. “Why?”

Crawly could justify it any number of ways. A drinking angel would be too busy to grant any miracles. Crawly could try to get information out of him. He could tempt the angel to overindulge. “Not part of the deal.”

“Lord give me strength,” Aziraphale muttered and Crawly gave himself a mental pat on the back. “So, if I agree not to thwart you with regards to the Pharaoh and have a single drink with you, you will bring me to the Pharaoh’s daughter?”

“Yup.”

“I’m sure you have some nefarious ulterior motive.”

“Probably.”

“Are you quite certain I couldn’t gain an audience with the Pharaoh on my own?”

“Well, you probably could,” Crawly hedged skeptically. “But it would take some heavy-handed miracles. My way’s much easier. Besides, what does Heaven care as long as the job gets done?”

Still the angel hesitated and they only had a street left to go.

“Look, I’ll go in to do my job, you go in to do yours, we leave, it’s done. Nothing to it.”

“Alright, fine,” Aziraphale huffed, hands clasped anxiously. “But this is not some sort of…truce or something.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” They turned the last corner and the palace came into view. “Oh, look, we’re here.”

The guards welcomed him with a deference that made him uncomfortable with Aziraphale watching, but he made sure to smile and swagger his way into the palace anyway. Not that it mattered. Aziraphale was too busy taking in the opulence of the structure with awe, pure delight on his face as his eyes swept over the impressive architecture.

The Pharaoh met them in the throne room, rising to greet Crawly warmly by the hand, his grip lasting longer than was customary. He was an average-looking man, frail from poor genetics that no amount of riches could cure, but he exuded enough malevolence to make a demon’s senses tingle. Crawly fought the urge to shake him off. “Who have you brought to me, my serpent?”

Aziraphale blinked in surprise at the pet name, then bowed. “It’s lovely to meet you, Your Majesty. My name is Azir, a traveller—”

“He’s an oracle I found,” Crawly interrupted, a hint of suggestion in his voice. “His visions are true. He has come to…” Crawly searched for a phrase with enough gravitas, “impart wisdom on Thermuthis. Yeah.”

The Pharaoh turned suspicious eyes on Aziraphale. “You have seen visions of my daughter?”

Aziraphale nodded, exuding angel charm thick enough to choke. The Pharaoh flinched slightly. “Yes, yes, as you say. She, um, has great potential, lovely girl, if I could just see her?”

The Pharaoh regarded them doubtfully, but at Crawly’s reassuring smile, he nodded. “Wait here.”

“I don’t like the feel of him at all,” Aziraphale whispered as the Pharaoh left the room.

“Tell me about it,” Crawly agreed, collapsing into the huge throne. He might have to get himself one of these some day – seemed like the type of thing he ought to own. “My talents are wasted on him.”

“He seems quite fond of you.”

Crawly shrugged noncommittally, scrambling up when two sets of footsteps returned. The Pharaoh entered with his daughter in tow, her bracelets and amulets tinkling musically. She wore her hair in the style of youth, but she was beginning to lose the childlike softness about her face. Her smile at the sight of Crawly was tempered by her curiosity as she took in Aziraphale at his side.

The angel knelt in front of her, smiling with such warmth that even the Pharaoh relaxed. As Aziraphale laid a hand on her shoulder, Crawly could feel the miracle shimmer in the air. Thermuthis chatted happily with him, soaking up the angel’s earnest attention.

“You like this exotic traveller,” the Pharaoh said lowly, his jealousy cutting through the miracle like a knife.

With a start, Crawly realized he had been staring. Body slouching with a forced carelessness, Crawly tilted his head and turned to meet the Pharaoh’s dark gaze. “I never said that.”

“I see how you look at him.” Desire and envy poured out of the Pharaoh like smoke, acrid on Crawly’s tongue.

Crawly looked at him as levelly as possible. The Pharaoh laid a hand on his bare back, just above his belts. Through the touch Crawly could feel the human’s lust for all that Crawly had and was, especially that which he would not give him. With a tug, the Pharaoh brought their faces nearly close enough to touch. “I am your king,” he growled, teeth bared.

Control slipping, Crawly let yellow consume his eyes, the hint of fangs sharpening his teeth. “If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be.”

The Pharaoh released him, lip curling. “You are lucky you have the Gods in your eyes.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Luck all over. You done, ang – Azir?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, rather.” Aziraphale stood, straightening his robes and smiling down at the girl. “You be good now.”

She returned to her father’s side and he placed a hand on her head. Crawly and Aziraphale made their exit before their welcome entirely expired.

“Did you do your temptation?” Aziraphale asked as they left, smiling pleasantly at the guards. “I didn’t feel anything.”

“Oh, yeah, you know, lots of tempting, tempting galore. Let’s get that drink shall we?”

“They do interesting things with honey here,” Crawly said, grabbing a carafe of wine from his shelf and two goblets. “Bit cloying if you ask me, but nice enough.” He turned to find Aziraphale, who was sitting rigidly in one of Crawly’s wooden chairs, staring at his bare torso. “What?”

“Sorry, just getting used to your…” Aziraphale waved a hand at him. “Attire.”

Crawly looked down at his skirt and belts, then sauntered over to place the wine on the table, exaggerating the sway of his hips. “Like it?”

“You’re quite hairless,” Aziraphale remarked.

“It’s in right now.”

“Clearly you’re doing something right – the Pharaoh was quite enamoured.”

“He thinks I’m some sort of God.” Crawly poured the wine. “They all do. It’s the eyes.”

“I’m sure you’re enjoying that,” Aziraphale said drily.

“The humans make their own assumptions, not my fault. They’ve got a healthy respect and fear of snakes.” He slid a goblet across the table and took a seat. They toasted each other before taking a sip.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed for the first time since stepping foot in Crawly’s house. “It’s deliciously sweet.”

“Thought you’d like it.”

“Did you?”

“You got a sweet tooth.”

“Sorry, a what?”

Crawly shrugged. “You like sweet things.”

Aziraphale fidgeted with the base of his goblet. “I suppose I do.” He looked up with an expression Crawly had never seen before. Sort of a searching apprehension. The kohl made his eyes excruciatingly emotive. “None of the other angels consume human food or drink.”

Bashful. He was bashful, Crawly realized. It struck him that Aziraphale probably wasn’t well treated by his Heavenly brethren. They never seemed to keep him much in the loop, at any rate. “You need to fit in with the humans somehow.”

With that simple excuse, the tension drained out of Aziraphale. It reminded Crawly of his reaction on the wall of Eden after Crawly’s reassurance that he couldn’t do the wrong thing. “That’s true, isn’t it.”

The gratefulness in his expression made Crawly want to squirm, so he looked down at his wine. He downed it and poured himself a second cup, trying to convince himself he hadn’t just given a pep talk to an angel.

“Speaking of fitting in with the humans, what’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Sex.”

Crawly’s head snapped up. “Er.”

“It’s just such a _human_ thing. I admit to being awfully curious.”

“About the debaucheries of sex?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “I’m not a prude, Crawly. I’m sure I’ve seen all the same things you have.”

“Well, I mean…” Crawly seriously considered lying – it wasn’t like Aziraphale would know the difference – but he found he didn’t want to. The angel did appear genuinely curious, and Crawly was the last being to deny curiosity. “To be honest… Ihaventdoneit.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“Haven’t had sex.” Crawly shrugged, and took a healthy swig of his second glass.

“Oh.” Aziraphale took a contemplative sip. “If you don’t mind me asking…why not?”

Crawly certainly had not lacked in opportunity. Naturally, humans found him attractive and Crawly never hesitated to encourage their salacious thoughts. His job, the way he’d come to think of it, was to dangle a temptation like a noose in front of a human and watch them step into it, the ‘stepping’ being the important bit. Crawly never pushed them, that wasn’t the point.

So, if a married human decided to proposition him, well, they’d already placed the rope around their own neck. It didn’t make a difference that Crawly turned them down. Cheating on a spouse with another human was one thing, but sleeping with a demon seemed uncomfortably like kicking the stool out from under them. It wasn’t as though the human could _know_ he was a demon – no human in their right mind would proposition him if they did.

The Pharaoh had propositioned him several times. And he knew that Crawly wasn’t human, which said more than enough about the state of the Pharaoh’s soul. But if he was already damned, then he really wasn’t worth the Effort on Crawly’s part. A human couldn’t exactly be double damned.

Plus, there was always the chance that Crawly could bump into him in Hell later, which didn’t bear thinking about. Evil humans weren’t really Crawly’s cup of tea.

This amount of exposition was more than Aziraphale needed to know. Crawly wished he didn’t know it. That level of self-awareness was exhausting.

“There are other demons for that sort of thing,” was all he said.

Aziraphale hummed, accepting that answer. Their conversation took a more casual turn after that, drifting through art and language and human inventions. When Aziraphale finished his wine, Crawly offered to refill it.

“Oh, I’d better not,” Aziraphale declined, pushing his goblet away. “The deal was just the one, after all, wasn’t it?”

Swallowing his disappointment, Crawly nodded and waved a hand. “You’re free to go.”

Aziraphale nodded as well, but he did not stand. “How much longer do you expect to stay here?”

“Eh, not long.” Crawly finished his wine. “Doesn’t seem much else I can do here. The place has lost its charm now that I know your lot have got their eye on it.”

Aziraphale nodded with far too much understanding. “Well.” He stood. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

Aziraphale inched towards the door. “Until next time I suppose.”

“Get lost, angel.”

“Bye, then.” He left, and the room seemed several shades darker.


	5. 1392 BC - 41 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope sputtered cautiously to life in his belly as he watched the angel peek at him with embarrassment over his cup. He hadn’t been wrong; this angel _was_ different. Perhaps there was a chance for Aziraphale yet.

**1392 BC**

Three days later, a temperamental camel lumbered through the desert, a resentful demon slumped between its humps. Neither of them was very fond of the other, for reasons that neither would take blame for. Sun-heated sand made the air shimmer and dance, playing tricks on the eyes. It almost looked like the sand was boiling, Crawly thought, and then yelped when the beast bucked in panic. The camel lurched out of the sucking sand and Crawly lost his grip, the world spinning as gravity threw him to the ground.

“Ngh, pwah,” Crawly spat sand, struggling to his feet as the camel made its escape. “Get back here!”

With an ominous rumbling, the sand collapsed in on itself, a reverse sinkhole that sprouted a demonic figure. Brushing himself off, Crawly scowled at the messenger, who blinked sand from their long lashes.

“You scared my ride.”

“This is for you,” the demon said, holding out a crumpled, water-stained paper from their clipboard.

_<strike>Good</strike> Bad Job._ The paper read. _For the extermination of all newborn boys of the Israelites by…_

“What the heaven is this?” Crawly choked.

“Commendation. Apparently that Pharaoh you were assigned to threw a bunch of babies in some river or something.”

His stomach lurched unpleasantly. “What?”

“Oh, and Lord Beelzebub said to tell you not to get cocky.” The demon scratched at some sand caked on their forehead. “Hail Satan.” They sunk back into the ground just slow enough to be awkward.

Hands shaking, Crawly thrust the paper away as if it burned, watching it float harmlessly to the ground. Bile in the back of his throat, he turned to face the direction from which he had come. “You fucking maniac!” he screeched. “I never tempted you to do _that_!”

The first time Crawly saw Aziraphale drunk, a few decades later, he was too drunk himself to properly appreciate it. They had to walk a long way to escape the stench of blood and illness and death and _frogs_, and they had drunk the whole aimless journey. Now that they were collapsed in a heap in the sand, they were well past sloshed.

“I tried convincing the Pharaoh, y’know,” Crawly mumbled vaguely, leaning against Aziraphale’s back so he could look up at the dizzying expanse of stars. They looked so different from far away. “Told me it was my fault, bringing the oracle.”

“Orcle?” Aziraphale slurred, head knocking against Crawly’s.

“You. Said you cursed ‘em when Ther – Therm – his daughter saved Moses.”

“S’pose I did,” Aziraphale said thickly, shuddering against Crawly’s back.

“Naw.” Crawly shook his head, rolling his skull against the angel’s. “You didn’t know. You didn’t know. Dunno what made ‘im change ‘s mind.”

“Pharaoh?”

“Mm. Thought I convinced ‘im to let ‘em go at one point.”

“Planning committee was glad,” Aziraphale muttered, sniffling. “Didn’t want any of their plagues to go to waste.”

They drank until they couldn’t speak, leaning back-to-back to stay upright even as they hid their faces from the other. Their silence endured until the sun spilled over the horizon, bringing, if not a better day, at least a new one.

“I think I understand what you meant,” Aziraphale rasped, voice like gravel, “on the ark, about puppet strings.”

Crawly scooted to get a good look at him, the weary slump of his shoulders, the stains on his clothes, the glassiness in his eyes. He looked small in a way that angels never did. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

Aziraphale blinked, the sunrise reflecting like Hellfire in his eyes. “It’s not up to us.”

_It could be_, Crawly thought, but didn’t say.

**1063 BC **

This had to be the most boring war in the short history of the world.

“Why doesn’t everyone just go home already?” Crawly despaired, slumped against a tree with the angst of a particularly moody teenager.

Sitting straight-backed on a boulder, Aziraphale pursed his lips ruefully. “I haven’t been able to bolster Saul’s courage enough yet. The poor man is terrified.”

They both looked out at the valley separating the two armies, watching as Goliath swaggered through no-man’s-land, threatening and challenging Saul. Even from their comfortable distance away they could see how the Philistine champion towered above everyone else.

“I don’t blame him,” Crawly admitted. “I didn’t think humans could even _get_ that big.”

“What I don’t understand is why your side—"

“Not my side.”

“--doesn’t just attack when my side is clearly reluctant to fight.”

“Do you _want_ them to fight?”

“Well, no, but _someone_ has to win.”

Crawly shrugged noncommittally. “I’m just enjoying the break. Can’t start my next assignment ‘til I’ve finished this one.”

There was a commotion by the Israelites’ tents and a young man, practically still a boy, strode towards the front lines, trailed by several others.

Aziraphale stood. “What on earth.”

Curiosity piqued, Crawly ambled a few steps closer, watching the boy struggle in ill-fitting armor. His helmet bobbled comically on his head. “I thought Saul was meant to fight.”

“He was – is!” Aziraphale wrung his hands. “Oh, David, you idiot. He’s one of the food runners. He’s been asking all sorts of questions lately, been socializing with some of the less savoury characters.”

“Looks like they convinced him to go for glory.” Crawly grimaced as the boy David lugged his sword with a painfully inexperienced grip.

Goliath, in his bronze helmet and armor and his shield-bearer guarding his way, hefted his javelin and laughed. “_I’ll give your flesh to the birds and wild animals!_”

“You going to do something?” Crawly asked the angel. “Or should I start celebrating now?”

Aziraphale shook his head ambivalently. “My orders were for Saul. This isn’t part of the Plan.”

“The ineffable one?” Crawly clarified.

“Obviously!”

“He’s gonna get himself killed.” Crawly felt a bit bad for the kid, really. He knew what it was like, accidentally getting in over your head.

“_I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel_,” David cried, voice cracking partway through. “_The Lord will deliver you into my hands and I’ll cut off your head!_”

Crawly whistled. “That’s a bit presumptuous. Did he even ask you first?”

Aziraphale huffed out a breath. “This is _such_ a mess.”

“_All those gathered here will know that this battle is the Lord’s, and He will give all of you into our hands!_”

“Wow, he’s really going to make you look bad.” Crawly, feeling David’s murderous desires, snapped his fingers and made the boy’s ill-fitting armor and too-heavy sword disappear. In their place were a slingshot and a bag of rocks.

“What did you just do?” Aziraphale exclaimed, aghast.

“Oh, come on, that armor was more of a hindrance than a help.”

“And the…” Aziraphale waved at the sad weapon in David’s confused grip. “Whatever that is.”

“He wanted one. He obviously had no idea how to use that sword. Besides, it’s funny.”

Down in the valley, David and Goliath circled each other. Goliath lifted his sword and David lifted his slingshot and a rock. On the sidelines, the champions’ respective armies watched and hooted and stamped their feet. With a battle cry, Goliath charged forward, sword aimed for David’s unprotected chest. With a gesture so subtle most everyone missed it, David let go of the sling.

Time felt suspended as all the humans, one angel, and one demon watched the fist-sized rock sail through the air. It collided, with deadly aim and devastating effect, with Goliath’s forehead, right where his helmet offered no protection. The giant stumbled with an expression of polite confusion before collapsing, first to his knees, then face down in the dirt.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Was that you?” Crawly whispered.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I thought it was you.”

“Well, shit.”

Cheers erupted, echoing through the valley as David pounced on the fallen form of Goliath. Picking up the fallen warrior’s sword with both hands, he swung the blade down upon Goliath’s neck, hacking at it viciously.

“Ugh,” Crawly groaned. “That’s just uncalled for.”

Pale and wordless, Aziraphale brought a hand up to his mouth as David cut off Goliath’s head, gripping it by the hair to display to the dead man’s horrified army.

“It’s incredible what violence humans will commit when they think God’s on their side.”

Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale turned away from the grisly scene in the valley to look at him. “I could say the same about the Devil.”

“Nah. They use Hell as an excuse for the actions they feel guilty about. David down there? I’m not sensing a shred of guilt.”

Aziraphale looked back reluctantly, where David was being hoisted up by his fellow soldiers and Saul watched on, face stiff. Goliath’s men were quickly retreating, scrambling to grab their belongings. “Why should David feel guilty for protecting his people?”

“’M not saying he should. Just an observation.”

“What I’m worried about is how I’m going to explain this to head office,” Aziraphale fretted. “This hasn’t gone at all according to Plan.”

“Just tell ‘em he volunteered and you miracled him to win.”

Aziraphale turned on him, scandalized. “I can’t _lie_.”

“Well I certainly can’t take credit for it!” Crawly threw his hands up. “Goliath was my guy.”

“We both failed in our tasks. The honourable thing to do is admit it.”

Crawly snorted. “Right. And while you’re getting a slap on the wrist, I’ll be getting my wrists broken.” He started making his way down the hill.

“Where are you going?”

“Escaping with ‘my side’.” Crawly waved at the retreating Philistines. “While I still have legs to escape with.”

Aziraphale didn’t stop him.

Over the next several centuries Crawly decided it was time for a change. For a start, the name ‘Crawly’ was chafing him raw. He had informed Hell of Goliath’s unfortunate end with a memo that had stretched the truth more than a bit, and had kissed his wrists goodbye.

After a year of waiting for punishment, Crawly realized that Aziraphale hadn’t sold him out after all. It made him feel odd and itchy. He was sick of being this terrified, squirming creature.

So, Crawly died an unlamented death. He – then She – went by Bat-Shir for a while. It meant ‘inspiration’ and she certainly did plenty of sinful inspiring. She adopted the elegant outfits of the women, wore her hair long and braided, and did her best to shade her demonic eyes.

She went by Jamir, meaning ‘supplanter’, and brought about the fall of rulers. She went by Doveva, meaning ‘talker’, and used her silver-tipped words to bring about mischief. She went by Dinah, meaning ‘God will judge’, when she was feeling especially ironic and corrupted religious men.

When Solomon was collecting wives like candy, Dinah helped turn him away from Good, not that he put up much of a fight. It was at her request that Solomon built a temple for Ashtoreth, the goddess of fertility and war. The temple for Milcom, and the subsequent child sacrifices, had nothing to do with Dinah, but she included that one in her memos to Hell anyway.

As fun as those names were, none of them stuck. They were nothing more than characters she played for work. She wanted something for herself, not a name that had been thrust upon her like her first ill-fitting body. For several years she drifted namelessly.

It came to her when she was on a boat, travelling to do a temptation that seemed like more effort than it was worth. The last time she had been on a boat had been during the Flood, and she was remembering the way Aziraphale had charmed the animals to him. She was thinking of the angel’s soft hands stroking the crow, wishing they were her wings instead, and said, “Crowley.”

It had a ring to it. It was like Crawly, but different, just enough to be her own. She liked it.

It took a full decade and several screaming matches with Infernal HR before all the paperwork went through with Hell, but it was worth it to make it official. There wasn’t a demon around that was stupid enough to mess with Infernal HR.

She wondered what Aziraphale would think of her new name and felt a nervous tingle in her belly.

**29 AD**

Crowley – who was going around as male again – had been very busy the past few decades. The whole ‘Son of God’ thing had really put a wrench in Hell’s plans, and wrenches hadn’t even been invented yet. Hell had had Crowley scrambling to make up for all the Good that Jesus kid was stirring up, assigning him so many tasks that he hadn’t even had time to meet the guy yet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to – anyone that saintly was bound to be boring. Aziraphale had so far been the only exception to the rule.

Then he got a new assignment.

“I’m not even done the other one yet!” he complained, staring down at the crumpled note that had appeared on the table in front of him. As he spoke, the words on the page changed.

_Forget about that. Go to the Desert of Judah and tempt the Son of God. Now. Or else._

“Yeesh, okay, okay, I’m going,” he muttered. The page burst into flame in his hand and he dropped it with a blessing. It was times like these he regretted glamming up all his memos to head office. He doubted he’d get such challenging tasks if they realized he didn’t cause half the trouble he claimed to. “Tempting the Son of God, yeah, what could possibly go wrong.”

Crowley found him miles deep in the desert, sitting on a rock with his eyes closed and looking decidedly miserable. The man was gaunt and sunburnt, his lank hair falling in his face, his head bowed and hands clasped as if in prayer. If it weren’t for the aura of divinity radiating from him Crowley might have thought he’d found the wrong human.

“Heya,” he greeted, coming to a stop in the sand a few feet away. “Jesus, right?”

The man raised his head and appraised him with weary eyes. “Yes,” he said, voice ragged.

“Crowley.” Crowley held out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Warily, Jesus clasped his hand once and released it. “You have come to tempt me.”

Puffing out his cheeks with an exaggerated breath, Crowley nodded apologetically. “What gave me away? Was it the eyes? Mind if I…?” He gestured at the empty space on the rock and the human shifted over automatically, giving him room to sit down. “Thanks. Was a far walk. How long you been out here, anyway?”

“Nearly a full moon cycle.”

Crowley whistled in appreciation. “You must be hungry. Want some bread?” With a thought, he grabbed a sizeable stone and turned it into a warm loaf of bread, offering it. To his surprise, the human leaned away.

“I am fasting. One does not live by bread alone, but by the word of God.”

Crowley hadn’t even been trying to tempt him yet. “Suit yourself.” He miracled the bread away. “By the looks of things, the word of God isn’t all that nourishing.”

The comment didn’t rile him. He only smiled and looked back out at the stretches of sand.

“Tell me about yourself,” Crowley prompted, and the human did.

With a calm voice and careful words, he spoke of his home and his mother and his carpentry. He described the teachings he planned to share and his hopes for his followers, all with a quiet assuredness that drew Crowley in. There was a simple goodness to him that should have given the demon the willies, but only filled Crowley with muted hopelessness. No one that kind would last long in this world.

Four years later Crowley was proven right.

With the other women, she followed from Galilee to the crucifixion, where she found Aziraphale.

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?” she said in greeting, which might have been unfair, but she wasn’t feeling especially generous towards the angel at the moment. Each blow of the hammer and whimper of pain rattled her teeth and chipped at her patience. It seemed like such a _waste_, and here Aziraphale was, standing by and doing nothing, as usual.

She still felt a spark of satisfaction when Aziraphale made an approving hum at her new name.

When at last the skies were dark and the whimpers gone silent Aziraphale touched her arm. It was only then that Crowley realized she was shivering. She forced her treacherous muscles to stop their complaining.

“I’m meant to assist with the burial,” Aziraphale said quietly, as the onlookers sniffled and began to disperse. “Would you like to accompany me?”

A human, turning to leave, saw Crowley’s eyes and gasped. Shutting her eyes, Crowley waved away the human’s fear with a flick of the fingers. “No. I’ve seen enough.”

**41 AD**

Crowley had been in Rome for four days and that was four days too long as far as he was concerned.

He had met many violent and cruel humans during his time on Earth, some of which could give a demon a run for their money, but Emperor Caligula was in a category of his own. Unpredictable and sadistic, Crowley had seen enough atrocities at the behest of the Emperor that he knew there was nothing he could do to possibly make Caligula worse. He was as good as Hell’s already.

“What have you got?” he asked the bartender, squinting up at the unfamiliar wine list through his tinted lenses. They were irritating, but less irritating than being arrested and stoned to death, as had been attempted three times in the last eight years.

If he had known, before the crucifixion, the wide-reaching effect that Jesus’s death would have on the humans, he might have done more to stop it. It was a sad fact of life, he was learning, that a person’s word spread faster once they were dead – a fact that Heaven had obviously caught onto as well. They had made the man a martyr to further Heaven’s cause, a move that was no less cold for its effectiveness. Crowley was grudgingly impressed.

It spread like fire, that Holy frenzy, using people’s doubts and fears as dry kindling. It took more than a headscarf and subtle persuasion, now, for Crowley to pass by undisturbed. His eyes struck fear into the hearts of humans who were wary of forces beyond their understanding.

And so he found himself: not good enough for Heaven, not bad enough for Hell, too freakish for Earth.

“Crawly – Crowley? Fancy running into you here!”

It was with a considerable lack of enthusiasm that Crowley turned to see Aziraphale, clad in a white toga, helping himself to the empty seat next to him. There was an aura of genuine pleasure about Aziraphale, as if he were honestly glad to see Crowley. Probably eager for the chance to spout more ineffable nonsense at him.

“Still a demon then?”

Crowley snapped. As if he needed the reminder, as if he could be anything else, even if he wanted to. “What else am I going to be, an aardvark?”

Aziraphale hardly blinked, unfazed by his outburst. “Just trying to make conversation.”

“Well, don’t,” Crowley muttered, then immediately felt guilty. It occurred to him that this was the first time Aziraphale had ever approached him first, that Aziraphale had chosen to greet him instead of slipping away unnoticed. With a sigh he turned to the bartender. “A cup for my acquaintance here.”

Smile blooming like the sun, Aziraphale accepted the wine that Crowley poured from his jug. “_Salutaria_!” He clinked their cups together the way the locals did before taking a sip. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was just trying out the lingo or if he really meant to toast to their health. “In Rome long?”

Crowley bemoaned his assignment to tempt Caligula and Aziraphale shared his intentions to improve the child Nero, and Crowley realized he had missed this. It was…not nice, but satisfying to bitch about work with someone who could relate. Hell, to _talk_ to someone who could relate, and for once there was no tragedy unfolding in front of them.

“I’ve never tried an oyster,” Crowley admitted, then reeled back like he’d been slapped when Aziraphale offered, “Oh, well let me tempt you to…”

Crowley stared at him in amazement, amusement bubbling up inside him.

“Oh, no that’s your job isn’t it,” the angel said with an awkward laugh, and Crowley was forced to hide his smile in his cup.

Mind pulled from its ruminations, Crowley really looked at Aziraphale, at his relaxed posture, the cup of wine in his hand, his talk of restaurants and oysters. There was something different about him, a freedom that hadn’t been present when they had last shared wine in Egypt over a millennium ago.

Hope sputtered cautiously to life in his belly as he watched the angel peek at him with embarrassment over his cup. He hadn’t been wrong; this angel _was_ different. Perhaps there was a chance for Aziraphale yet.

Clearing his throat, Aziraphale gestured at his lenses. “Those are new.”

Tilting his head, still looking at him, Crowley said, “Yup.”

“Is that a new fashion I haven’t caught on to yet?”

Finishing his wine, Crowley twisted in his seat, reaching for the jug to refill his cup. “Safety precaution. Got a bit much, all the screaming and running. Humans can be very ‘kill first, ask questions later’.”

Nodding, Aziraphale made a sympathetic noise. “That must be a terrible inconvenience.”

Crowley grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, drinking wine like water to keep his mouth busy. He was a demon; people didn’t sympathize with demons. Angels _definitely_ didn’t sympathize with demons – there wasn’t enough time before the smiting started.

By the time they’d finished the jug, Crowley had managed to bring up oysters again and accept Aziraphale’s second, more subdued invitation to Petronius’s new restaurant. He had no excuse to go, it wasn’t for work, but he’d be a fool to turn down an offer of free food. The fact that he didn’t actually need food, nor did he usually indulge, did not factor into it.

There was a queue out the door when they arrived.

“Oh, drat,” Aziraphale said, hands clasped. “I didn’t realize it would be quite so busy. I hope you don’t mind waiting, I’m sure it won’t take too terribly long. The queue starts back there I believe.”

Listening with half an ear, Crowley bypassed the queue, conjuring up a sack of gold in one hand. By the door was a pot with the words ‘To Insure Prompt Service’, into which he dropped the coins with a loud clatter and a significant look to the host.

The human jumped to meet them, smile in place. “Hello, sirs, table for two?”

“That’s hardly fair,” Aziraphale whispered fiercely.

“Well, you can go wait while I go in alone if you prefer,” Crowley countered, following the host inside.

With a huff, Aziraphale trailed after them. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’d never figure out how to eat oysters on your own.”

The inside of the restaurant was lavishly decorated, with thick curtains and marble statuettes dotting the floor. It was a bit cluttered for his taste, but Aziraphale appeared enraptured, which was probably a bit blasphemous somehow.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” he gushed, nearly walking into a table as he looked around the place. Crowley had to grab his arm to steer him in the right direction. “Petronius has done a marvelous job.”

Such high praise made Crowley look around again with a new eye, trying to see what the angel saw. He certainly didn’t mind the change of scenery – no public executions or torture devices in sight. The elegant attire of the clientele caught his eye, and he made some minor adjustments to his own clothing as they were led to a table.

They were seated in a comfortable corner Aziraphale looked him over in surprise. “You got rid of the…” he gestured at his own head, where Crowley’s laurel wreath had decorated his curls.

Crowley nearly made a snarky comment that he would have appreciated being told his outfit was tacky _before_ stepping foot into a high-end restaurant, but that would reveal that he hadn’t worn the wreath deliberately, and would make him look decidedly uncool. As the official representative for Hell, he made special effort to always look cool. “Wasn’t working for me,” he shrugged.

“I didn’t mind it,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley peered at him suspiciously, searching for any hint of mockery.

They were served efficiently and soon Crowley was staring in bafflement as the oysters were placed in front of him. “People eat this?” He picked up one of the shells, giving it a wriggle and watching the grey-ish glob swish obscenely.

“Oh, don’t let the appearance put you off.” Aziraphale set about squeezing lemon over his own oysters. “They’re really quite lovely: fresh with a hint of brine, deliciously fleshy and crisp.” As he spoke, he lifted one of the oysters, bringing the wide end of the shell to his lips. As Crowley watched, he tipped the shell, slipping the oyster into his mouth. He chewed a few times before swallowing with an expression of bliss. “Mm, that was delightful.”

The angel opened his eyes and Crowley quickly looked at his own oyster, which was in danger of tipping onto his lap. “I’ve heard these are meant to be aphrodisiacs.” He lifted the shell and did his best to copy Aziraphale, letting the innards slide into his mouth. It wasn’t as slimy as he had feared, with a surprisingly mild flavour.

“I do believe that’s due to the resemblance to female genitalia.”

Crowley, who had been in the process of swallowing, choked. It took a quick miracle to clear his airways before he made a fool of himself. Where the offending oyster went, he didn’t know.

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale patted him gently on the back – too gently to be helpful had he actually been choking. “Did that not agree with you?”

Grabbing his wine, Crowley took a healthy swig. “Where the hell did you hear that?” he croaked, scrutinizing Aziraphale’s politely concerned expression.

“I’m sure I can’t recall,” he said dismissively, picking up another shell. “I must have read it somewhere.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it bother me? It’s just a harmless fish.” Aziraphale paused, inspecting the oyster in his hand. “At least I think it’s a fish. It doesn’t look like other fish.”

“So you really don’t care that you’re eating something that looks like a sex organ.”

Aziraphale paused with the oyster halfway to his lips. “By that logic I’d be uncomfortable eating anything vaguely phallic too.”

Crowley had to put down his wine. “Are you?”

“Of course not.” He slurped another oyster.

Brain whirring, Crowley stared at the candle in the middle of the table. He had many questions, none of them he knew how to pose. It occurred to him that his attempts to fluster the angel had backfired.

Giving up, he had another oyster and managed not to choke this time, enjoying the citrus-saltiness on his tongue. “Not bad,” he offered, and changed the subject. “You been trying many restaurants, then?”

The question prompted Aziraphale to launch into an enthusiastic recounting of the restaurants he had frequented over the years, the various dishes he had tried, the scrumptious and the disappointing. As he described a honey-drenched layered cake that had been ‘nearly divine’, Crowley listened with something that might have been considered, by some, to be fondness. The angel’s delight was so simple and honest that Crowley didn’t even bother to tease him for the gluttony. It was harmless, in the grand scheme of things, and Aziraphale looked radiantly happy.

In the pauses between stories, Aziraphale finished the rest of his oysters, and Crowley pushed his plate within his reach, silently offering him his remaining share. He sipped on his wine and interjected when appropriate, wondering if maybe there was something to that aphrodisiac claim after all. Certainly, he felt drawn to the angel, grateful for the lenses that obscured his gaze.

The conversation drifted from food to music to architecture, until their server returned, inquiring if sirs would be interested in another bottle of wine.

They were, and also dessert, and by the time that they were leaving the restaurant, it was evening and their steps were the slightest bit unsteady. “What a lovely meal that was,” Aziraphale sighed contentedly. “Food is always better with good company, I find.”

“You think I’m good company?” This was news to Crowley, who tended to irritate other demons.

“You’re surprisingly courteous for a demon.”

“’M not courteous. I can be plenty rude.”

“I know.” His tone was suspiciously close to placating, which Crowley decided to ignore. “Anyway. I’d best be getting to that Nero boy.” They paused under an awning. “Best of luck with your temptation.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You want Caligula to be a sinful tyrant?”

“No, of course not.” Aziraphale chuckled awkwardly. “It’s just…you know, we both have our work to do.”

“Right.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Same to you, then. With the…blessing or whatever.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale smiled. “I was thinking of persuading him to learn a musical instrument. The lyre, perhaps.”

“Nah.” Crowley crossed his arms, looking out at the people passing by. “Do the fiddle. ‘S more fun.”

“Do you play?”

Crowley had tried once or twice, but was admittedly terrible at it. He couldn’t seem to get the posture or arm positions right and had only succeeded in producing a sound reminiscent of a dying cat. “Can’t be bothered.”

“Well. I will put your recommendation under consideration.”

Aziraphale leaned towards him and Crowley’s mind went blank. The gesture surprised him, not because it was unfamiliar – he had seen plenty of locals greet each other with a kiss to the lips – but because of what it meant. A kiss between men here was a sign of kinship and equality. In fact, it was only exchanged between men of equal social status. Everyone else was satisfied with a handshake.

Automatically, Crowley bent to meet Aziraphale’s lips with his own, a fleeting brush that was over in a second. Crowley’s lips tingled for much longer, the scent of the angel lingering in his throat.

“Until next time,” Aziraphale offered with a smile, and disappeared into the streets.

He left Crowley, dumbfounded, under the awning, contemplating the unlikely occurrence of an angel viewing a demon as their equal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the fiddle was not invented until much later, but I simply couldn't resist the whole 'Nero fiddled while Rome burned' thing. 
> 
> What are your thoughts on the story so far?


	6. 537 AD - 868 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tried to tempt Aziraphale but ended up falling in love instead.

**537 AD**

Crowley was officially sick of being the Black Knight. He was sick of the metal cage that passed for armour, always pinching no matter what position he was in. He was sick of the inescapable damp that made his hair want to frizz up and soaked into his bones. He was sick of riding on horses and skulking through forests and threatening people with his sword.

Spreading foment had lost its charm now that he knew a certain angel was spoiling all his hard work.

“Williams, Thompson,” he snapped to his two least idiotic men, who scurried to his side. “I have a task for you. I have heard news of Sir Aziraphale’s location and need you to go to his campsite.”

“To kill him?” Williams asked eagerly.

“No!" Crowley's chest seized at the thought. "No, don’t even let him see you. I want you to spy on him and bring me back information.”

If Aziraphale was going to be unreasonable, then Crowley had to do what he had to do. If that meant getting humans to spy on him so he could learn about Aziraphale’s plans and thwart them, then he’d send spies. He had spent too many miserable, damp, pinched weeks in this land to have nothing to show for it.

What he wasn’t expecting, was for only one of his men to return.

“Where’s the other guy?” Crowley demanded, taking the letter that Thompson handed to him. Huddling by the morning fire, he read, _Dear Crowley_, _Thank you for sending those two troubled humans my way…_

“He has defected, Black Knight. And with the delivery of this letter, I am defecting, too.”

_Their souls are tainted but not beyond salvation…_

A pit had opened in Crowley’s stomach. He had the feeling he had just been out-thwarted. “What?”

Thompson was already backing away from him, eyes darting around nervously. “We have decided to join Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round, for he fights a more noble fight.”

“That bastard!” Crowley fumed. “No, you know what, fuck that.”

With a snap of the fingers, Crowley’s black steed trotted to his side, eyeing him balefully as Crowley swung onto the beast’s back. Thompson had already fled.

Grabbing the horse’s reins, Crowley hissed, “You try bucking me off again, you’re never getting another apple from me.”

With a snort of disdain, the horse set off, rattling Crowley’s bones with every gallop. When he got to the site an hour later, he felt bruised to the core and was not in the mood for the knights who blocked his path. “Aziraphale!” he bellowed, pulling his horse to a stop.

“Begone, Black Knight,” one of the humans cried out, hand on the hilt of his sword, “or prepare for a duel!”

“Yeah, great, good for you. Aziraphale!”

The angel, clad in his armour but helmet-less, clanked out of a tent, frowning at him. “Didn’t you get my letter?”

“What do you think you’re doing stealing my humans?”

Aziraphale tsked and turned his attention to the knights who watched Crowley distrustfully. “It’s alright, gentlemen. You may take your leave while the Black Knight and I discuss privately.”

“But, sir--!”

Impatient, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the two humans went slack as sleepwalkers. “Please return to your tents and dream of whatever you like best. Everything is fine.”

Crowley watched in bemusement as the knights shuffled away without protest. “That’s a nice trick, you’ll have to teach me that.”

“I don’t like doing it, but its easier than explaining our conversation.” Aziraphale turned back to him with a pinched expression. “What were you saying?”

“Oh, right.” Crowley took a breath to regain his steam. “What do you think you’re doing stealing my humans!”

“I didn’t _steal_ them.” Aziraphale kept glancing nervously at the panting horse. “I – look, would you come down from there?”

Growling under his breath, Crowley dismounted with a groan, every limb aching. He miracled an apple into his hand to appease his horse, hissing as the beast snatched it with his huge teeth, narrowly missing Crowley’s fingers.

“I offered those humans a perfectly reasonable choice, dear fellow,” Aziraphale continued, “and they made a Good decision. Where is Thompson, anyway?”

Crowley stepped closer, looming. “What did you offer them? Passage into Heaven? Better wine? Money?”

Aziraphale twitched.

“Money, really? That’s bribery! You can’t bribe someone into doing Good!”

“Oh, it’s a little incentive at most. Besides, one small not-so-Good deed will be outweighed by all the Good I’ll have them do.”

“So,” Crowley tried to cross his arms, but couldn’t with the stupid armour on and ended up waving his arms awkwardly. “This is how it’s going to be, then?”

Aziraphale lifted his chin. “This is how it has to be.”

“Fine.” Crowley turned and hauled himself back onto his horse. “Have it your way.”

A great crashing came from the trees behind him, and he turned to see Thompson stumble into the clearing. “Sir Aziraphale!” he panted, “Sir Aziraphale, he’s – oh.”

Thompson came to a halt, staring up at Crowley and going pale. “Don’t worry, Thompson,” Crowley drawled, tugging on the reins to turn his horse. “I can see you’ve made your decision. Just know there’s always a spot for you with me when you get bored of being good.” With a cocky smile, Crowley nudged his heels into the horse’s sides and left Aziraphale and his new recruit behind.

It was fine. He’d just have to pick up his wiling game. 

He quickly enlisted two new men to replace the ones Aziraphale had stolen, and got back to fomenting twice as hard as before. He fanned the cooling embers of nearly-forgotten family feuds. He fed the flames of political unrest. He encouraged treachery and adultery, instigated lust and jealousy. 

It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to work harder, it was just the principle of the thing.

Yet for every squabble he started, another argument was peaceably resolved. For every act of betrayal he caused, another human would do something stupidly heroic. That new Code of Chivalry was a tough one to beat.

A week later the land was in an uproar, half the people salivating for a fight while the other half scrambled for peace.

“We can’t continue on like this,” Aziraphale said as they glared at each other across a table in a dingy inn.

“You could leave,” Crowley offered, sipping his mug of ale.

Aziraphale picked morosely at his meat pie. “My placement isn’t over yet.”

“Neither is mine. Guess we’re at an impasse.”

“What are we to do then,” Aziraphale said in frustration, “enter into combat?”

“Combat?” Crowley repeated in alarm.

“Oh, don’t act so surprised, I’ve heard of your reputation around here.”

“Look, I just took over the job from some human – he’s the one who was doing all the fighting and killing before he wanted to retire.”

Aziraphale put down his fork. “So, you didn’t kill that knight last month? Oh, what was his name...Sir Albert?”

“No! I said I was fomenting dissent and discord, not murder and mayhem.”

Aziraphale lifted his fork again and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. He made a face as he swallowed. “I miss oysters.”

With a sigh, Crowley finished his drink and slammed the mug on the table. “Guess I’ll keep wiling, then, and you’ll keep thwarting, and nothing will change. It’s a waste of effort if you ask me.”

“It’s not that I disagree, but I see no acceptable alternative.”

“Yeah, yeah, angels Good, lying Bad, got it.”

“What would Hell do to you if they caught you slacking off?”

Crowley shrugged and pushed away from the table. “Have me ripped apart by Hell hounds probably, but it’s not gonna happen. No one ever checks up on me.”

“I’m afraid I’m not as unconcerned as you.”

Crowley hesitated. “I don’t need your concern.”

“Well, you have it.” Aziraphale went back to his sad pie and the conversation was clearly over.

**600 AD**

“Did you hear the bollocks Pope Gregory has come up with?”

They had found each other in Rome again and Crowley had agreed to Aziraphale’s suggestion of lunch. Patronius’s restaurant was long gone, but the oysters they were sampling were nearly as good as they’d been centuries ago.

“He has come up with a great many things,” Aziraphale pointed out, detaching an oyster from its shell with his fork. He glanced up at the demon with amusement in his eyes. “But I think I know what you’re about to complain about.”

“For the record, sneezing is _not_ an omen of death,” Crowley grumbled, cracking a shell with a stab of his knife. “All this excessive blessing going around now is giving me hives.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Saying ‘God bless you’ in response to a sneeze is a perfectly lovely sentiment.”

“Aren’t you worried it’ll get overused? Lose its meaning?”

“Perhaps, but it will be nice while it lasts. Mind that you don’t sneeze for the next few centuries.”

“Ha ha.”

Aziraphale chuckled again, utterly at ease, enjoying his oysters and his wine. Crowley watched him with a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in decades. He’d spent their time apart thinking about the nature of lying and figured he’d take another shot at convincing Aziraphale of some sort of agreement.

He cleared his throat. “Do you remember that conversation we had sixty years ago about cancelling each other out?”

Aziraphale’s easy smile faded a touch and Crowley nearly abandoned ship. But, no, this would be advantageous to the both of them in the long term.

“I’ve been thinking, what’s Heaven’s official stance on lying anyway?”

Aziraphale looked down at his plate. “It’s bad, obviously.”

“Always? What about lying to make someone feel better?”

“Well…then you’re giving them false hope.”

Crowley considered this. “What about just to be polite?”

“We should all strive to be honest, no matter the situation.”

“Oh, come on. You’re telling me the next time a stranger asks how I’m doing I should say ‘miserably, I’m a demon, I live and breathe despair, how about you’?”

Aziraphale gave him a concerned look. “Do you really?”

“Wha-? That’s not the point!”

“What _is_ your point?”

“Lying isn’t always bad!”

“Everyday politeness and pleasantries are a very specific context. No one is expecting you to tell the full truth.”

“So it’s the _expectations_ that matter?” Crowley clarified. “That’s easy, I bet Heaven don’t expect complete honesty. I stretch the truth in memos to Hell all the time!”

“That may be so,” Aziraphale said in his ‘I’m judging you’ tone, “but Heaven is quite insistent on full transparency.”

“Right, have they ever _actually_ checked any of your work?”

Aziraphale hesitated and Crowley pounced.

“They haven’t! See, as long as the scales don’t seem to be tipping too much in either direction, they’d have no reason to be suspicious.”

“You know, it’s not a bad idea.”

“Really?”

“No!” he exclaimed, lips twisting smugly.

Crowley scowled to smother the smile that threatened. Aziraphale could be such a bastard. He nearly brought up the whole flaming sword business, but he wasn’t that desperate yet.

“Aren’t you at least curious what would happen if we laid off with the curses and the blessings for a bit? Just let the humans do what they will without outside influences? I mean, maybe Eve would have eaten that apple on her own eventually.”

“Or perhaps the humans would still be in Eden.”

“And none of this,” Crowley waved his arms expansively, “would exist! You can’t tell me you think we’d be better off – or the humans – without all of this.”

“We have jobs, Crowley. I intend to do mine and, for your safety, I recommend you do yours.”

Every time Aziraphale brought up his concern for Crowley’s safety, it felt like something was squeezing inside Crowley’s chest. There was probably a fault with his corporation, he’d had it long enough.

So he wasn’t going to be able to change the angel’s mind about the lying. He’d have to find another approach.

**771 AD**

The angel and the demon watched somberly as Charlemagne walked along with the funeral procession to lay his brother to rest.

“You think he did it?”

The corners of Aziraphale’s lips were dragged down by the weight of his uncertainty. “I sincerely hope not. Fratricide is not a good quality in a king.”

“I had to travel ages to get here,” Crowley grumbled. “He better be worth a curse.”

“I’m meant to bless him and give him counsel, so he can’t be a lost cause yet.”

“This is like Shem all over again.”

“Let’s just do our jobs, Crowley. Once we’re finished there’s this lovely little restaurant we could try--”

“It’s a waste of time and resources, having us both here. Look, I understand why you don’t want to not do the blessing and tell Heaven you did, but you must admit how ridiculous this is.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, which Crowley took as confirmation.

“I’ve been thinking.”

Aziraphale glanced at him from the corner of his eye, getting ready to throw a look of suspicion.

“What if I did both?”

“Both what?”

“The blessing and the curse. Both.”

The suspicion hit Crowley in the face. “That’s impossible. You can’t do blessings, you’re a demon!”

“How do you know? We both do miracles, what’s stopping me from using mine for Good?”

“But, I mean… It would go against your very nature!”

Crowley decided to take that as a compliment. “Nature versus nurture, eh, angel? Maybe you could teach me.”

“Assuming that’s even true, which I seriously doubt, that would still involve lying to our bosses.”

“They don’t care, as long as it gets done! Maybe if you write your memos with a passive voice you’ll feel better about it: ‘the miracle was done’ instead of ‘I did the miracle’.”

“Hilarious,” Aziraphale said drily, turning back to watch the service.

“Just think about it,” Crowley insisted.

**868 AD **

“Here, catch.” Crowley tossed the heavy scroll, watching with amusement as the angel fumbled to catch it with a yelp.

“Was that really necessary?” 

Throwing himself into the chair across from Aziraphale, Crowley poured himself a drink. He was going to need it for this next job. “It’s about some guy named Buddha. Probably boring. Picked it up while I was in China.”

Aziraphale didn't respond, his face blooming with awe as he unrolled the scroll carefully, delicate fingers skimming the images. His eyes roamed hungrily over the intricate text, his food forgotten while Crowley drank and watched him become utterly absorbed. The tension in his shoulders fell away, his stress forgotten, and Crowley felt himself unwind in reaction.

He’d left behind one country in chaos to come to another. He just wanted a moment of rest.

“They’ve come up with something called woodblock printing,” Crowley said quietly, but Aziraphale still twitched in surprise, looking up with eyes luminous with interest. Crowley felt a swell of pride for having put that look on his face. “That scroll’s a bestseller right now.”

“It’s incredible,” Aziraphale breathed, hunching again to analyze the script. “Do you mind if I borrow it for a time?”

“Keep it,” Crowley offered, as if that hadn’t been his intention from the moment he’d bought it. “I’m sick of carrying it around.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly –”

“Angel. If you don’t take it I’ll just give it away so…”

“Oh, no, then of course I’ll take it!” He clutched the scroll protectively to his chest. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley said and he meant it. If Hell got wind of him giving an angel a gift he’d really be in for it. Maybe he could pass it off as a bribe. “So. Vikings.”

With a groan, Aziraphale tenderly closed the scroll. “It’s been an absolute nightmare.”

Crowley grimaced in sympathy. “What does your lot want you to do about it?”

Aziraphale fiddled with the scroll, keeping his eyes lowered. “They want me to join the King’s army.”

His mug hit the table with a clatter. “They want you to _fight_?”

The angel nodded, meeting his eyes guiltily. “I was trained as a fighter originally, after all. I suppose it’s about time I put my skills to use.”

“But you hate fighting.” Crowley felt numb with shock and a creeping horror. “Where are you being stationed?”

“Mercia.”

The horror finished its creeping to pounce. “Me, too.”

Aziraphale paused in his half-hearted picking of his food. He looked at Crowley in shock.

“But I’m not on the King’s side.”

“We’ll be fighting against each other,” Aziraphale realized.

Crowley found himself at a loss for words.

A shadow passed over Aziraphale’s usually-sunny face. “How fitting.”

“This is ludicrous!” Crowley exploded, attracting curious glances from the other patrons. He leaned across the table and lowered his voice to hiss, “We can’t fight each other.” The very thought of raising a sword against Aziraphale made Crowley want to slither back to Hell in protest. “What would even be the point? We cancel each other out!”

“Perhaps we won’t actually have to fight _directly_ against each other,” Aziraphale offered somewhat shrilly. “We’ll just be on opposite sides, as usual.”

“Right, ‘cause that makes everything just peachy, huh? How about – hear me out – we_ don’t _fight, and _say_ we did?”

“I’m quite fond of peaches.”

“_Angel_.”

“I can’t, Crowley!” Aziraphale cried quietly. “You know I can’t disobey an order. There’s a reason for everything.”

Crowley knew he shouldn’t push. The more he pushed the harder Aziraphale resisted, but why couldn’t he _see_ how utterly pointless and hypocritical it all was? “If there’s a reason for us to both meddle in a war that’s already happening I’d love to hear it. Isn’t Heaven meant to be against violence?”

“Unless it’s for the greater good.” Aziraphale’s hackles were rising. “The Vikings have been ransacking monasteries, killing innocent people. They must be stopped!”

Crowley scoffed. “And _you’re_ the one to stop them? The angel who gave away his flaming sword?”

Aziraphale blinked before his expression settled into an aloof haughtiness. Crowley thought he’d probably regret his words when he wasn’t so angry. Meal unfinished, Aziraphale stood. “Perhaps _you_ are comfortable shirking your responsibilities, but I am not a coward.”

“You have all the courage of the oblivious.”

“It’s called faith,” Aziraphale snapped.

Grinding his teeth, Crowley watched Aziraphale leave, the table edge creaking under his white-knuckled grip. Let Aziraphale get discorporated, see if he cared. Stupid, self-righteous, stubborn angel.

His eyes returned to the abused table and he exhaled heavily. Aziraphale had forgotten the damn scroll.

Snatching it, Crowley sprang up, nearly running for the door. Outside, he whirled in the street, searching, but Aziraphale was gone.

The thing was, Crowley hadn’t actually lost his faith when he had Fallen. It wasn’t like he’d Fallen on purpose; it had come as a complete surprise. He’d gone to a few Revolution meetings, mostly out of curiosity, had left not entirely convinced, and then had had the misfortune of returning from a shift of Astral Creation to stumble headlong into the war.

So, Crowley hadn’t really lost his faith – he still believed She had some sort of Plan for all of creation. He just didn’t believe that that Plan was anything more than God having a laugh at their expense. Nor did he believe that anyone could actually know the Plan, no matter how many times Beelzebub insisted it was Written.

Crowley was a sad excuse for a Viking. Unlike Aziraphale, he had never been trained for combat and had very little interest in warfare, no matter if it was with a sword or a knife or fists. He didn’t particularly enjoy living on a boat, though the sea shanties were bearable. The only real similarities between Crowley and his new brethren were their hair colour and the ability to drink copious amounts of alcohol with aplomb. At least the armour was more comfortable this time.

It was three months of raids, of Crowley pretending to fight but mostly just repelling people with his demonic charm, of Crowley helping steal things so that the Vikings would just leave, of peeking into churches just quickly enough to ensure Aziraphale wasn’t inside, before Crowley saw him.

He was not inside a church, but just outside its front doors. With a sword in one hand and shield in the other, he defended the holy building and its occupants with divine fury. He was almost painful to look at, so bright was his aura, but Crowley couldn’t help but stop and squint into the light.

He was the most beautiful and terrifying thing Crowley had seen since the war in Heaven.

It was also Wrong.

Crowley nearly called out to him, but doubt clogged his voice in his throat. This was not the angel who drank wine with him and stole his leftover oysters. This was not the angel Crowley had come to call friend.

A sword whistled in his direction and Crowley was forced to refocus on the fight. This battle was the fiercest he had experienced yet, a tinge of madness to every thrust he parried, his shoulder jarring with every hit to his shield. The cloud of holiness in the air clashed with the haze of brimstone, the humans pulling the fug of blessed and cursed air into their lungs. It was making them wild, Crowley realized, making them fight twice as hard, without thought of self-preservation.

There was a glint of sun against metal in his peripheral vision and Crowley twisted to avoid a particularly vicious swing for his head. His back slammed into something and he whirled, sword up, and found himself face-to-face with an angel.

Their shields crashed together hard enough to rattle their teeth. “Crowley!”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley panted, half expecting a smiting. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Eyes wide, Aziraphale pulled away. “You decided to fight after all.”

“Figured I’d run into you eventually.”

A Viking was making a run for the church and Aziraphale flicked his fingers. The human tripped. “You _wanted_ to run into me?”

“Sure.” Crowley shrugged, and miracled the very confused Viking upright again. “You forgot—”

“Crowley!”

Crowley ducked instinctively, twisting as a sword whistled by his head. Stumbling back, he wasn’t able to avoid the blade, which cut into his side, glancing off something hard and grazing across the armor on his back. He fell with a cry, bringing his shield up belatedly, landing hard in the dirt. He looked up, ready to scare the human away, but as he watched, his attacker froze like a statue, face blank.

Aziraphale fell to his knees at his side, hands fluttering about the demon. “Oh, no, oh, dear, are you alright?”

Sprawled in the mud, side on fire, Crowley watched dumbly as the human shuddered, turned, and walked away to join another fray.

“Did you just mind-control one of the good guys?”

“Crowley, lift your arm, let me see.”

Crowley yelped as clumsy angel fingers poked at his tender waist. “Ouch, get off!” He slapped the hands away, curling with a groan to peek at his blood-stained clothes.

“Let me _see_, Crowley,” Aziraphale insisted shrilly. “I might need to heal you! Do you _want_ to discorporate?”

“You can’t heal me, I’m a demon! What would Upstairs think?”

Aziraphale’s bottom lip trembled dangerously and Crowley was momentarily caught by the sight. Then the angel made to reach for him again and he batted him off, gently peeling away his armor himself. With shaking hands, he revealed a cylindrical tube, violently dented, that hung by a leather cord over one shoulder. The tube had taken the brunt of the sword’s hit, before the blade had grazed his ribs and been deflected by the armor on his back. It wasn’t that bad really, it only hurt like a bitch.

“Would you look at that.” Gingerly, Crowley waved a hand over his bleeding skin, healing the slice over his ribs – and fixing his clothes while he was at it – before pulling the leather cord over his head. “Saved by the scroll.”

“Sorry, the what?” Aziraphale asked, hands still fluttering in front of him.

Crowley popped open the cylinder, repairing the dent so that the scroll could slide out, plopping it wordlessly into Aziraphale’s hands.

“Oh!” The lines in his face faded as he carefully unrolled the scroll, taking in the familiar text while the fighting continued around them, not daring to disturb their pocket of calm. “I thought you would have given it away.”

“Couldn’t give it away after I’d already given it to you,” Crowley grumbled, brushing himself off and getting his feet under him.

“Wait.” Aziraphale slipped the scroll back into its sleeve, then pulled the leather cord over his own neck. Hands free, he reached down to help Crowley up. “Are you quite certain you’re alright? I didn’t think demons could heal wounds.”

“’Course we can.” Crowley let himself be pulled to his feet, the angel’s hands warm around his. “We just choose not to.”

“Well.” Aziraphale held his hands a moment longer before hastily stepping back. “I’m glad.”

Some odd, vaguely familiar sensation was churning in his stomach. “Are you?”

“Like you said, it would be awkward if I had to heal you.” He glanced Heavenward.

A javelin whistled through the air between them and the clamour of battle rushed back in. Scrambling for their dropped weapons, the angel and demon pressed back-to-back.

“Dunno about you, angel, but I could use a break after that.”

“I agree. You have no idea how difficult it is to fight when you can’t let yourself hurt anyone.”

“I have some idea. Wait,” Crowley looked over his shoulder in disbelief. “Heaven put you in a warzone and won’t let you hurt anyone?”

“Er, no, Gabriel was quite supportive of any smiting I might need to do,” Aziraphale admitted, raising his shield as a projectile came hurtling their direction. “But I’ve never killed anything and I’m not about to start now.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale’s stubborn face in profile, the odd thing in his stomach spreading to his chest. _This_ was the angel Crowley knew. This soft, courageous being who defied orders to do what he thought was right.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, I can hardly disobey something that wasn’t an order in the first place.”

“Still, it’s very brave.” It wasn’t the apology Crowley wanted to say. It wasn’t ‘I’m sorry for calling you oblivious’. It wasn’t ‘I shouldn’t have mocked you for giving away the flaming sword – one of your greatest achievements’. It would have to do.

“I’m afraid you’re the only one to see it that way.”

Crowley pivoted to block a hit aimed at Aziraphale’s back. Alright, that was enough of that. “Do you trust me?” he yelled over the din.

“Well, I –”

“Never too late to start!” He dropped his sword to grab Aziraphale by the arm. “Hold on!”

“Hold on?” he shrieked, ducking behind his shield. “Hold on to –”

Like a collapsing star, Crowley sucked his focus inwards. There was a pop and they were gone.

“—what?!”

Spacetime wrinkled and they popped back into existence. Only now they existed in a serene field several miles away.

Warping reality to such an extent was no easy feat, and they both lost control of their human-ish bodies, staggering to the ground in a tangled heap. Aziraphale groaned and Crowley grunted, nudging an elbow out of his ribs. Flopping onto his back, body buzzing with adrenaline, Crowley looked at the clouds and felt his mouth stretching into a grin. It had worked. Relief bubbled out of him as breathless laughter, his chest shaking, and he turned his head to look at Aziraphale on his back at his side. Face flushed and eyes wide, Aziraphale stared back at him, his lips parted with gentle surprise.

He was beautiful, undeniably. Crowley felt a sharp, almost-familiar pang in his chest, and pressed his hand to the spot to make sure he hadn’t sustained some wound without noticing.

A quizzical expression flickered across Aziraphale’s face, his hand fluttering to his own chest. “Are you…?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale sat up, his eyes scanning down and back up his body and Crowley felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

“You’re alright? Only I felt…”

Aziraphale’s eyes were terribly blue in the sunlight, Crowley noticed, and his lips were horribly pink.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, his lips forming a perfectly surprised circle.

Sitting up, Crowley brushed grass from his clothes. “What?”

“Oh, I’m just being silly.” Aziraphale rolled to his knees and then to his feet in a surprisingly fluid motion. “It’s nothing surely.”

For the second time that day Aziraphale pulled him to his feet; it was even harder to pull away this time. Crowley’s entire body wanted to sway forward, his sense of gravity pointing towards Aziraphale instead of the earth’s centre.

“What would you say to a bottle of wine?” Aziraphale asked.

“I’d say, God, yes.”

The thing was, demons weren’t supposed to be able to feel Love. It was one of the first things torn from them when they Fell, the violence of it leaving a cold, gaping void in their very beings. In the wake of that, it was easy to believe that no demon would ever again know divine Love.

This had been true until 1392 BC, when a miracle performed by a certain angel in Egypt had been felt by a certain demon by pure proximity. This was a glaring outlier.

But humans didn’t feel Love the same way angels did. In fact, they didn’t feel Love at all, but rather love, which was entirely different. Crowley hadn’t spent so much time on Earth without learning a thing or two.

He was extremely fond of practical jokes and general mischief. Changing the sign on push-doors to pull, shortening a single table leg, putting beer in the wine bottles and wine in the beer bottles – such acts and the resulting chaos were capable of putting a real smile on his face. A good cup of wine could make him feel like all was right in the world, a long nap was positively blissful, and making Aziraphale laugh was his guiltiest of guilty pleasures.

He might even admit, only to himself, that he loved these things. Not Loved. But loved, the way humans did, with passionate selfishness, incomprehensible selflessness, and utter, personal joy. There was nothing cold or detached about human love.

Aziraphale was sitting across from him, telling him about a human faux-pas Gabriel had committed a couple centuries ago, and Crowley was having an inkling about what was so familiar about that odd feeling he sometimes got in his stomach and chest.

“And then he said, ‘He can’t even read! How am I meant to make him a prophet if he can’t read the prophecies?’ And I told him to simply miracle him to be literate, and he was like, ‘Won’t that be a shock to his system? Humans are so fragile. Should I comfort him somehow? How do you comfort humans, you’ve spent enough time around them, surely you know.’ So, I told him…” Aziraphale was cracking up, giggles distorting his voice. “I told him, the best way to comfort a human is to hug them.”

“You didn’t,” Crowley guffawed.

Aziraphale nodded, tears in his eyes. “I did. Of course, I should have practiced with him first, I’m afraid he squeezed the poor man nearly senseless.”

Crowley laughed in earnest, picturing the huge archangel embracing a human.

“At least he had practice,” Aziraphale hiccupped, “he had to go two more times.”

“That’s practically devious of you,” Crowley said slyly, his stomach and chest feeling oddly tight.

“Hardly that,” Aziraphale demurred, chuckling into his fourth helping of wine.

Leaning his chin in his palm, Crowley gazed at Aziraphale, who shone warmly in the candlelight. “I’ve never had a hug.”

Aziraphale’s cup thudded to the table. “No? Well, my dear, we simply must rectify that immediately.”

“Eh?” Too drunk to resist, Crowley let Aziraphale tug him to standing, the quiet din of the mostly empty restaurant fading as Aziraphale guided him further into their secluded corner. With no hesitation, Aziraphale stepped close and wrapped his arms around Crowley, holding him tight to his chest, his warmth seeping into every place they touched.

“You have to hold me back, dear boy,” Aziraphale instructed, his breath brushing Crowley’s ear.

Suppressing a shiver, Crowley cautiously wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, the gesture suffusing him with such comfort that his entire body sagged. “Oh.”

“Isn’t this nice?”

Demons weren’t supposed to like nice things. “Ngh.” Crowley held him tighter, his chest about to burst. This was even better than the feeling he got when he changed push-doors to pull, shortened table legs, and swapped the beer and wine. Even better than the best wine he had ever had or a really good nap. It was comparable to the way he felt when he made Aziraphale smile. 

_I love you_, Crowley thought. The realization hit him like a belly-flop from so high up that the water felt like concrete. A full-body collision that crushed his lungs and likely gave him internal bleeding. For a moment, he feared he may discorporate. _Fuck, I love him_.

He must have reacted in some way, because Aziraphale pulled back and, shit, could the angel _feel_ Crowley’s love? He couldn't possibly, or surely he'd be running for the door by now, but a squirming panic filled his throat, the type he hadn’t felt since he had gone by Crawly.

“Are you alright?”

Stepping away, back hitting a wall, Crowley’s mouth worked, brain whirring furiously as he thought of a way to save face.

“I ought to hug you more often, if you liked it that much.”

Scowling, feeling horribly exposed – _I love him_ – Crowley slumped against the wall. “Once was plenty. Demons don’t _hug_.”

The light in Aziraphale’s eyes dimmed a touch and Crowley felt a horrifying urge to beg forgiveness. The angel stepped back. “Of course not, my mistake.”

_No, it’s mine._

At some point, Crowley had forgotten about being careful. When had that happened?

_Oh, God, I love him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments help my writing! <3


	7. 868 AD - 1023 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t possibly love an angel. He couldn’t possibly have fallen in love at all. A demon! In love! The concept alone was ludicrous. It was something else, that warm, squirmy, mushy feeling he got when Aziraphale smiled at him or held his hands or fretted over his safety. Something else, definitely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait - life has given me very little time for writing lately!

**868 AD**

He couldn’t _possibly_ love an angel. He couldn’t possibly have fallen in love at all. A demon! In love! The concept alone was ludicrous. It was something else, that warm, squirmy, mushy feeling he got when Aziraphale smiled at him or held his hands or fretted over his safety. Something else, definitely.

The first thing he did was storm into Hell.

“What do you mean there’s nothing wrong with my corporation?” Crowley hissed, hopping down from the examination table and crossing his arms over his bare chest. “It’s clearly defective.”

The Maker shrugged and wiped their hands on their horrifically stained smock. It appeared as though it had once been white and had become stained over centuries with blood and bile and other bodily fluids. The Maker was very proud of this, just as they were proud of their terrible bedside manner and rough hands. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I made the corporation myself, I know the ins and outs of it, and I know it’s perfectly fine.”

Crowley shoved his sunglasses into place. “Then what’s with the…the _swimmy_ feeling I get?”

“Don’t know, don’t care, but I’m telling you, it’s not the corporation’s fault.”

“You’ve been no help whatsoever,” Crowley grumbled, putting his clothes back on with a snap of the fingers.

The Maker smiled a terrible smile, fetid breath seeping from behind their rotten teeth. “Get out of my office.”

Crowley slithered out sulkily.

So, fine, maybe his corporation wasn’t faulty. That didn’t mean he was feeling _love_. Could be indigestion, or heart burn, or, or…some other common human thing. Perhaps it was a sort of fondness. He could admit to fondness for Aziraphale. How could a demon not be fond of an angel who enjoyed gluttony on the regular and tended to carry out his deeds in spirit rather than in letter? Crowley could only imagine how much worse his life would be if his Adversary on earth had been an angel like Michael.

So, sure, he liked Aziraphale, but he certainly didn’t _love_ him. Of course not.

He comforted himself with the thought for a decade until, during a check-in back at headquarters, Beelzebub asked him, “So how are thingzzs with the,” their mouth twisted in distaste, “Enemy on earth? Need any help with that _angel_, Azzzirial, was it? Ligur here izz looking for some overtime.”

Ligur grunted, eyes flashing a hungry crimson, and Crowley’s heart burst into a sprint in his chest. It took significant effort to keep his cool while smooth-talking Beelzebub out of that idea.

“Besides, Ligur,” he pointed out, “you can’t just go around killing everyone when you’re working on earth, and where’s the fun in that? You’d discorporate out of boredom in a decade.”

“Fine,” Ligur grunted, looming in a sulky manner. “Whatever.”

“Soundzzz like you have thingzz well in hand, Crowley,” Beelzebub admitted, and Crowley’s intestines stopped trying to jump up his esophagus. "Keep it that way."

Crowley went home after that meeting, slammed the door behind him, and collapsed to the floor. Pressing his forehead to his knees, he groaned, wondering if this was what a heart attack felt like. One threat from Hell about hurting Aziraphale and he devolved into panic.

“Idiot,” Crowley grunted, able to deny it no longer. He fucking loved Aziraphale. There really was no other explanation. He groaned again.

Without the comfort of denial, anger came bubbling to the surface.

“How stupid can you be?” Crowley snarled, slumped over his kitchen table. “You’re a fucking demon, how could you fall in love with an angel? What kind of masochistic idiot am I?”

And, “What brilliant idea was that?” Crowley shouted, drunk in the streets, staring up at the stars. “Making me this way? Why even give me the capacity for love? What the Heaven were You thinking, creating a demon who could love an angel?”

And, “Who gave him the right?” Crowley griped, struggling not to jostle the sheet draped over him while the painter nodded sympathetically. “How dare he be so fucking kind, and prim, and soft, and perfect? What a bastard. It’s like he was daring me to fall in love with him.”

And, “You damned idiot,” Crowley whined, face down on his bed. “You’re going to get him Fallen or killed. Can’t let Hell find out. Christ, can’t let _Heaven_ find out. Then where would we be?”

The anger fizzled out in a couple years. He wasn’t really the type to stay angry long, he didn’t even hold grudges. Sass, biting sarcasm, snooty comments, definitely, but wrath? Not his thing.

But he wasn’t quite finished his conversation with God yet.

“Okay, look. I know Aziraphale believes You do everything for a reason, but I _really_ doubt You included _me_ in your calculations. I can’t _love_ him, it’s absurd! If You could just…make me not love him, I could ease off on the temptations. I can’t stop entirely obviously, it’s my job, but I promise not to tempt any really religious humans, okay?”

And, “How about You make me not love him anymore and I’ll never try to tempt him again. Not that he needs much help with that, but, y’know… I’ll stop offering him my food and, uh, making him question things.”

And, “You know what, I didn’t want to stop doing those things anyway. Last offer: You make me stop loving him, and in return I’ll donate to a church, I’ll give money to the poor. C’mon, there has to be _something_ I can do to make this _feeling_ go away!”

God, predictably, never answered. Not that he really expected Her to. Though if there was ever a time to break the longstanding tradition of his questions being lost in the void, now seemed like a great time.

At a loss, he felt a good sulk settling in his bones, which seemed both well-deserved and fully justified. He spent a good chunk of the tenth century drunk or sleeping, and when he was out and about his mood was so dismal it wreaked havoc on everyone and everything within a mile radius. The temperature dropped, flowers wilted, food spoiled, babies cried, and humans shivered with a sucking, inescapable hopelessness.

The expression ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t’ felt especially apt. He couldn’t let anyone know about his feelings, or he’d be the laughingstock of Heaven and the embarrassment of Hell. If he was lucky, Beelzebub wouldn’t just kill him outright, but he certainly wouldn’t be allowed to work on Earth anymore. Not that it would matter, because surely Aziraphale would want nothing to do with him anymore.

But to keep his feelings secret… He would have to limit his interactions with Aziraphale. No more holding hands or hugging. He’d have to be mindful to keep things professional, not get too drunk, watch his words. He’d have to be careful, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

He _wanted_ to hold Aziraphale’s hands. He wanted to hug him and offer him his food. He wanted to get drunk with him and talk into the night and maybe try that kissing thing again. He _wanted_ that. For a tempter, he wasn’t so keen on the whole wanting thing.

**1020 AD**

They bumped into each other, quite literally, at a midday market just outside of Bukhara. Crowley wasn’t watching where he was going, trying to tail a merchant he was meant to tempt into stealing some produce, and when he ducked around a corner he clipped shoulders with someone. The someone yelped, his bag tumbling to the ground.

“Shit, sorry!” Crowley stopped in his tracks, bending to retrieve the person’s bag, and looked up to find a familiar face.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale smiled in surprise. “I thought that was you. In a hurry, are you?”

“Angel, hey!” Crowley thrust his bag into his arms and stepped back, his stomach filling with that awful mushy, swimmy feeling. “I was just…uh, following someone, but it can wait.”

“Here for work, then?” He brushed some dirt from his bag and began walking, Crowley falling into step beside him without a thought. “I was heading to the park for some light reading, would you care to join me?”

Crowley shouldn’t, but he did of course, his entire brain lighting up with happiness. It was like the last century of sulking didn’t exist.

They ended up lounging under the shade of a mulberry tree, people-watching and nibbling on perfectly seasoned _shashlik. _

“It’s a complete contradiction,” Crowley was saying, twisting the skewer stick in his fingers. “He was as bad as humans come, worse than some demons I know, and then he went and saved a kid from a burning building. How is that supposed to add up? I thought my side had him for sure, but now…”

“That’s just the thing.” Aziraphale licked grease from his fingers. “With free will. Humans can _choose_ to do good or bad. How else are they meant to become holy, unless they also have the chance to be wicked? Whereas we are set in our ways right from the start, of course.”

Crowley considered this, then chucked the skewer on the ground. Aziraphale clucked at him but didn’t pick it up. “Guess so.” He watched Aziraphale licking the last of the seasoning from his skewer stick. There was a smudge on the corner of his mouth and a wave of fondness surged over Crowley. “How long are you here for?” he asked, strangled, clawing for land.

“Oh, another week at least,” he said with a dramatic sigh.

“Eager to move on, are you?” That didn’t sound like Aziraphale, who much preferred to settle in one place.

“It’s not that. Only – oh it’s silly.”

“_What_, angel?”

“Well, Avicenna is doing a book signing in a couple days and I was _so_ hoping to go and get my first edition of _The Book of Healing _signed.”

Ah, that sounded much more like Aziraphale. “Why don’t you just pop over, get the book signed, and pop back?”

“Well, they’d _know_ if I used a miracle to get there.” Aziraphale glanced skyward, frowning. “My orders were to stay here until my job is done.”

Crowley twisted to peer at him. “Aziraphale, how many times is this book signing going to happen?”

“Only the once.”

“And how many miracles have you done?”

“Oh, I mean…I haven’t exactly been counting—”

“That was rhetorical. My point, is – go to the stupid book signing.”

Aziraphale looked at him with wide, ambivalent eyes. “I can’t just _go_.”

But he wanted to, it was clear as anything. He was wearing that pleading, hangdog expression that tugged painfully on Crowley’s heartstrings – yes, he had those, apparently. “Hellsake, angel.” Oh, he was going to regret this. How long had he been trying to convince Aziraphale into some sort of work agreement? And of course it was now, when Crowley should really be avoiding him, that it looked like Aziraphale was ready to crack. “What if…” If they did this, they would get to see each other more often. They would get to work together, in a way. “What if I did the miracle for you?”

“Not this again.”

“Look, I’m already here for my own work, if I throw in a quick miracle on the side no one will know and you can get out of a town for a few days. No harm done.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. It was a really good book, then. 

“Just – what’s the job?”

Aziraphale dithered a moment longer, looking down at his clasped hands, before his shoulders slumped. Crowley smirked through the swimminess in his stomach.

Nervousness was not a very demonic trait, and so Crowley was very good at pretending he never felt it. It came in very handy during trips to Hell and performance reviews. With all his practice, anyone who caught sight of him as he strolled down the street would think, ‘what a suave, confident young man, though he does walk a bit funny’. In reality, Crowley felt ready to shake apart with nerves.

It wasn’t the first Good miracle he had ever done, but it was the first miracle he had done where the Good outcome was the goal rather than an unfortunate side effect. Although, if he were being honest with himself, which he usually was, it wasn’t the miracle itself that was making him nervous.

He wanted to do well for Aziraphale.

“You don’t _honestly_ think I’d want to get you in trouble, do you?” he had demanded before Aziraphale had left. “How long have we been working together – er, against each other? You really think I’d want to start fresh with an even more insufferable angel?”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale had agreed, already inching towards his travel bag.

“Go, it’ll be fine. Demon’s honour that the deed will be done when you get back.”

“Demon’s don’t have honour.”

“_Go_, angel.”

With a radiant smile, Aziraphale had all but trotted out the door.

“Just remember that you’ll owe me one!” Crowley had called after him, and Aziraphale had waved distractedly.

The best part was that Crowley got to stay at Aziraphale’s place while he was gone. Aziraphale seemed to have an awful lot of things for an angel, but what did Crowley know. Being a demon, Crowley snooped through his collection of books and pottery and knickknacks. He found playing tiles and a trunk of clothing that he rifled through with glee and small hoard of wine and snacks. Aziraphale was lucky he didn’t have mice in the place. 

He collapsed onto Aziraphale’s bed, his familiar smell wafting around him and he inhaled deeply. It was almost unbearably intimate; he quickly got back up.

As he stood in the middle of the room, looking around, he couldn’t help but think that, maybe, Aziraphale was as alone as he was.

“So, how was it?”

Aziraphale’s face shone with such delight that Crowley’s heart hurt. “Oh, it was just splendid. Really, dear, thank you for—”

“Ah-ah, don’t thank me. It was a deal not a favour.” Crowley took the book Aziraphale offered him, flipping open the cover to read the inscription on the inside. He didn’t see what the big deal was, but Aziraphale was proud as punch. “Nice,” he offered.

“Isn’t it?” Aziraphale agreed, taking back the book and tucking it lovingly on a shelf. “Dare I ask how things went here?”

“Smooth as satin.” Crowley leaned back in his chair, watching Aziraphale retrieve some wine. He wasn’t being kicked out immediately, then. “You can tell Gabriel the hospital is almost complete and will be healing people in no time.”

Aziraphale poured the wine. “I do hope he won’t look into it too closely.”

“He won’t.” He accepted a cup and took a sip, sweet tartness bursting on his tongue. “Mm. You know, now that you owe me a favour, we’ll need a way of contacting each other.”

“Actually, I’m really not sure I can—”

“Hey, deal’s a deal.” Crowley took off his sunglasses. “I promise not to make you do anything _too_ Evil.”

Aziraphale grimaced, twisting his cup on the table. “I suppose…”

“How will I know where to find you when I need you – er, your help?”

Head downturned, Aziraphale glanced up at him, expression unintentionally coy. “Normally I can sniff you out if you’re close enough.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Can’t sniff you out from a different country though.”

“I suppose I could write to you when I move.”

“And leave a paper trail?”

Aziraphale lifted his head, eyes bright with intrigue. “You would have to burn the letter, of course. Destroy the evidence.”

“Devious.” Crowley flashed him a grin. “I like it.”

Aziraphale beamed, then his face backtracked to a stern look. “It’s not devious, it’s practical. And only for this once. Until I’ve paid back my favour.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“You’ll drink to anything.”

“Cheers, angel.”

They clinked cups.

**1023 AD**

Someone was tapping on his bedroom window.

Groaning, Crowley rolled over in bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. The tapping got louder.

“What?” he snapped, throwing off the covers and stumbling to his feet.

At his window, was a bird. A bird that glared at him, cocked its head, and knocked its beak into the glass again. There was a piece of paper tied to its leg.

“Aziraphale.” Nearly tripping over his own feet, Crowley unlatched the window and nudged it open. There was an explosion of feathers. “Ah!”

Chirping indignantly, the bird flapped its wings in his face before settling on the window sill. Crowley reached with reluctant fingers, wary of the sharp beak, and untied the string around the bird’s leg as quickly as possible. The beak opened and Crowley snatched his fingers away, crumpled paper in his fist.

Freed from its duty, the bird disappeared out the window, leaving behind a splatter of shit on his windowsill. “Disgusting vermin!” Crowley called after it, miracling away the mess.

Unravelling the note, Crowley found two words in a familiar, looping scrawl. The paper even smelled holy.

_Mathura, India._

Well, that was convenient. Crowley was already here.

Crowley gave Aziraphale a couple days to settle in before paying him a visit.

“You sure that bird you sent wasn’t a demon in disguise?” Crowley asked, sipping tea while Aziraphale scooped mutton and rice on bread, popping the morsel into mouth with a hum of pleasure.

“Quite sure. It _was_ a long flight; a little grumpiness is understandable.”

“A little grumpiness my arse,” Crowley grumbled, half convinced the bird’s poor attitude was Aziraphale’s idea of a good joke.

Aziraphale only chewed, smiling innocently. Too innocently. Crowley decided he didn’t want to go there. 

As was common for them, the conversation turned to philosophy. Or, as Crowley liked to think of it, 'what even are our jobs?'. 

“Remember what you said last time, about humans becoming holy if they have the opportunity to be wicked? That only works, right, if you start everyone off equal, okay? You can’t start someone off in a muddy shack in the middle of a warzone and expect them to do as well as someone born in a castle.”

“Ah, that’s the good bit.” Aziraphale scooped more rice. “The lower you start, the more opportunities you have.”

Crowley stared at him. He had seen the lowest humans, the ones figuratively (and literally) in a muddy shack in the middle of a warzone, and he knew they weren’t looking for opportunities for holiness when all they could focus on was trying to survive. It was a lot easier to do Good when you weren’t worried about where your next meal would come from. “That’s lunatic.”

“No, it’s ineffable.”

Crowley mulled over that non-answer during the meal and decided he didn’t like it. Aziraphale, though, seemed happy enough to just accept ineffability as an overarching truth – probably helped him sleep at night. Or would, if Aziraphale slept. Crowley couldn’t begrudge him that; their jobs were nonsensical enough as it was.

They were munching on fruit for dessert when Crowley broached the topic they were both thinking about. “So. About that favour you owe me.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. “Ah, remember that, do you?”

Crowley gave him a slow smile. “I’ve got a little temptation for you.”

“There’s nothing to it, really.” Crowley leaned against a building wall while Aziraphale perched on a ledge at his side, both of them watching the humans going about their day. “Everyone wants something. More than one something, in most cases. All you gotta do is figure out what it is, and then wave it in front of them like a…like something really tempting.”

“Like a honey torte.”

“Yeah, sure. See that guy over there? With the walking stick?”

Aziraphale looked.

“He really wants that shawl he’s looking at, but he can’t afford it.”

Aziraphale looked at him curiously. “How can you tell?”

“I’ve got a sixth sense for desire. I can practically smell it on him from here.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale’s voice came out unnaturally high.

“Hey, no judging. It’s a demon thing, okay? Now watch this.”

Crowley weaved his way over to the human, then wriggled his fingers to draw a veil of demonic power over him. “_Just take it. You deserve it. It’s just one shawl. Go on, just take it_.” Crowley made his way back to Aziraphale’s side in time to watch the man, shoulders hunched, look around himself, tuck the shawl under his arm, and hurry away.

Aziraphale gasped. “That rascal! Did you just force him to—”

“I didn’t _force_ him to do anything! He chose to steal, I just showed him the option was there.”

“Well,” he huffed, “I really don’t know that I could do such a thing.”

“Just think of it as testing them. If they’re really Good, they won’t give in to temptation.”

Aziraphale still frowned. “But how am I even meant to know what they want if I can’t sense it?”

“For jobs, Hell tells me what to tempt them into. Tempt them into adultery, or theft, or betrayal, or whatever. Pretty simple really.”

“Yes, the forces of Evil have never had the aptitude for anything complex.”

Crowley smirked at the snooty tone. “Don’t fix what isn’t broken.”

With a gesture, Aziraphale miracled a small pile of coins into the merchant’s pocket for the stolen shawl. Raising his chin as if preparing for battle, Aziraphale said, “A deal is a deal, as you say. What do you need me to do?”

The job was a fairly standard adultery temptation.

“There’s this guy Mahmud, right, and he has a friend named Ayaz. I need you to tempt Mahmud into making a move on Ayaz and cheating on his wife.”

“Mahmud as in _the ruler of Ghazni_?”

“Er. Yeah.”

“I thought you weren’t going to make me do anything too Evil.”

“Oh, as if adultery is the worst thing he’s been up to lately. Besides, he might not do it.”

“And after this we’re even?”

Crowley nodded, heart fluttering. “Yup.

Ostensibly, the reason Crowley was making Aziraphale do his job was because he didn’t feel like travelling. In reality, there was no way Crowley was missing this.

It wasn’t really spying, Crowley told himself, as he followed Aziraphale on his way to find the two humans. He was just going to the same place as Aziraphale and staying a comfortable, not creepy, distance away.

Aziraphale found Mahmud and Ayaz in an inn guarded by soldiers. Rather than bother with them, Aziraphale transported himself inside while Crowley snuck to watch through one of the side windows.

The two men were alone inside, discussing strategies over a map on the table between them. Miraculously, neither man noticed Aziraphale as he approached them, coming to stand over Mahmud’s shoulder and watching their interactions for several moments. His expression flickered between distaste, surprise, and uncertainty, before settling with resignation. Then, while Ayaz explained an idea he had for the attack on Gwalior, Aziraphale bent to murmur something into Mahmud’s ear.

Mahmud shivered, his gaze lifting from the map he studied to take in his companion’s eyes, his lips, the line of his neck. Noticing his glances, Ayaz faltered, asked what Mahmud thought. Again Aziraphale bent, whispering some sweet temptation, too softly for Crowley’s desperately straining ears. Clearing his throat, Mahmud got up and walked around the table to stand in front of Ayaz, who looked up at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

With bated breath, Crowley watched Mahmud hesitate. Then, straightening his spine, he reached out a hand to cup Ayaz’s cheek. Ayaz’s eyes slipped closed, his hand coming up to grip Mahmud’s wrist.

With a satisfied nod, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and popped out of existence—

\--And right into Crowley.

They gave twin gasps of shock, Crowley gripping Aziraphale’s shoulders as they stumbled away from the window.

“What the _hell_ are you—” Aziraphale hissed.

Crowley slapped a hand over his mouth and dragged him into the next building over, away from the guards just around the corner. Huddled in the dark, they both held their breath and listened, but there was no shout of alarm or running feet.

Aziraphale’s lips were warm and soft against his palm. He snatched his hand away. “Uh, hey, hi, angel, fancy running into—”

Brow furrowed, Aziraphale stepped away, brushing out his clothes. “What are you doing here? Is this some kind of joke? Have you come to gloat?”

“What? No!”

“Why bother sending me all this way if you were just going to follow me anyway. I thought I was repaying a favour but here you are—”

Crowley had two options. He could tell the truth, which wasn’t an option at all, or he could say what a demon should probably say.

“I didn’t think you could do it. An angel, doing a temptation? I was prepared to step in and do it myself.”

Aziraphale considered this, his lips thinning. “Well, I did do it. I suppose that means I’m not a very good angel.”

_Crap. _“Didn’t mean it like that. Look, it was going to get done anyway, you were just saving me the hassle. And you could have botched it on purpose, but you didn’t, because it was a nice thing to do.”

Expression easing out, Aziraphale looked down and back up. “You don’t honestly think I’d want to get you in trouble, do you?”

Having his words thrown back at him made Crowley’s brain freeze. “Uh.”

“I might end up with a demon even more Evil than you.”

Crowley made a choked sound that may have been a laugh. “Er, right. ‘Course. Wouldn’t want that.”

They travelled back home together, which Crowley enjoyed infinitely more than trailing along behind.

“There was actually quite a bit of love between them. I could feel it.”

Crowley, who was holding the horse’s reins and focusing on avoiding divots in the path, glanced over. “Eh?”

“Between Mahmud and Ayaz. They love each other.”

“Oh. Think that balances out the adultery?”

“I don’t know. It certainly doesn’t balance out the massacres.”

“No. I imagine not.”

“It is odd though.”

Crowley looked at him more closely, taking in his face in profile as he looked out at the night sky. “What is?”

“That they could do such Evil and yet feel love such as that.” He turned to smile at Crowley then. “Perhaps there is hope for them yet.”

Panic clogged Crowley’s throat. Was he insinuating something? Did he notice how difficult Crowley found it not to gaze at him constantly? Did he hear the way Crowley’s heart hammered when they were close enough to touch? He swallowed thickly. “Free will, right, angel? Humans are weird like that.”

“Yes, my dear, they certainly are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are all the encouragement I need!


	8. 1066 AD - 1208 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were supposed to be even now. Crowley had done a favour for Aziraphale, Aziraphale had done one for him, but Crowley didn’t want their arrangement to be over.

**1066 AD**

They were supposed to be even now. Crowley had done a favour for Aziraphale, Aziraphale had done one for him, but Crowley didn’t want their arrangement to be over.

“We ought to keep each other up to date,” he had said offhandedly, just before leaving Mathura, “about each other’s whereabouts, you know.”

Aziraphale had eyed him. “What for?”

“Just to keep tabs. In case one of us needs a hand in the future.”

“In the future? We agreed this was to be a one-time thing, Crowley!”

“Still. You never know.”

“We can’t be sending notes to each other.” He had looked around furtively. “We’re an angel and a demon.”

“Alright, don’t get your trousers in a twist.”

Two years later, he was pecked at by a bird with a note reading _Kiev._ When the bird tried to shit on him, he dunked it in a fountain in retaliation.

“Huh,” he said, grinning at the note. “No hard feelings, eh, angel?” Then, feeling guilty, he un-dunked the bird before it drowned.

Five years after that, a raven with a message saying _Nishapur _swooped at him. In return, he sent a pigeon with _Elgin_ and then a crow with _Kanem_. Every few years, when one or the other moved, a bird would send their location to the other.

It was tempting, every time, to include more than just his location in his note. In 1054, before popping over to China to watch the supernova of what would later be known as the Crab Nebula, he nearly wrote ‘_Join me?’._ He wanted to send a letter for a meeting, a favour, _something_.

The problem was that he didn’t know how to phrase it without sending Aziraphale running. They couldn’t just socialize like friends would, there always had to be some excuse, some reason, and the socializing was secondary. But what was a good enough excuse to travel across the continent?

By 1066 they were both in England, doing their best not to get in each other’s way. Then the king died and the country was thrown into upheaval and Crowley gave in to temptation.

They met outside the Westminster Abbey, blending with the crowds, far enough away from the consecrated ground that Crowley’s feet didn’t itch.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked, peeking at him from the corner of his eye. He looked the same as ever, comfortingly so, though the cut of his tunic was different from last Crowley had seen him. His hair was more wild than usual, his gaze darting around. Crowley wanted to smooth down the unruly white-blond tufts.

“Heaven keeping you busy?”

“Naturally. No more than I can handle,” he added.

“Naturally.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer, watching the procession in front of them.

“Well?” Aziraphale prompted again, and Crowley’s bottom lip pouted.

“I was thinking. You seem busy. I’ve been busy. Running all over the place. Why don’t we…ease the load, as it were?”

Aziraphale turned to face him, eyebrows flying up. “You can’t honestly be suggesting another…deal.”

Tilting his head side to side, Crowley offered, “Not a deal. More of an arrangement.”

“Arrangement!”

“Ok, a trade? A mutually beneficial work agreement? Whatever you want to call it.”

It took half the day and two bottles of wine to convince him, but convince him Crowley did, a spark of satisfaction in his belly. Though that may have been caused by the sight of Aziraphale giggling into his cup at something Crowley had said.

“The thing is,” Aziraphale leaned over the table towards him later that evening, candlelight flickering across his expressive face. “I’m not entirely convinced I can even do a curse. And you, a demon, doing a blessing – it could destroy you for all we know!”

“Nah, I mean, what is a blessing anyway? You imparting God’s favour, right?”

“Broadly.”

“And a curse is just taking that favour away.”

“The opposite,” Aziraphale realized.

Crowley looked around, then grabbed a half-eaten loaf of bread from Aziraphale’s desk. “Bless this bread.”

Aziraphale gave him an aghast look. “But I was saving that! It won’t taste the same if I bless it.”

With a sigh, Crowley willed a duplicate loaf into existence on the table. “How about this one?”

He got a dubious look for his trouble, but Aziraphale obediently placed the tips of his fingers against the bread. There was a rush of divine power in the room that made Crowley shudder, a subtle glow pulsing from the angel’s skin. Aziraphale took his hand away.

“Now what?”

Crowley reached for the bread, but before he could make contact his wrist was seized. Crowley’s breath stopped. His eyes flew up to find Aziraphale’s wide and afraid.

“It will burn you.”

Crowley glanced down at the innocuous-looking bread and back up, magnetized by Aziraphale’s worried blue eyes. He still gripped Crowley’s wrist, his soft fingers searing a gentle brand into Crowley’s skin. “How hard did you bless it?”

Mouth opening, Aziraphale looked down at their hands and promptly let go, his palms smoothing nervously down his shirt. “Well. Not too hard, but one never knows how a demon might react.”

More cautious this time, Crowley held his hand an inch from the holy bread. He flexed his fingers, calling infernal energy to himself and letting it spark from his fingers and into the dough. The divinity sizzled away with an aroma like moldy toast. With a single finger, Crowley poked the bread, which felt definitively more hellish.

He gave Aziraphale a toothy grin. “Nothing to it. Now we just have to swap.”

They spent several hours with Crowley trying to bless the bread and Aziraphale trying to curse it, to no avail. No matter how they tried to reverse their usual process, or pull power from the Other Side, they could not get a grasp on what to do.

“This is useless,” Aziraphale eventually complained, collapsing back in his chair to glare at the defiant lump of dough. “It is simply not within either of our natures.”

“Forget about nature, angel. It’s not like we can’t _learn_ new things.”

“Not this! It’s preposterous – it goes against everything we know.”

Crowley felt his eyes widen. “What about everything we don’t know?”

“What?”

“I’ll try again, but this time, you bless it at the same time and…” Crowley reached out, forced his hand not to shake, “hold my hand while you do it.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “What do you hope to achieve by that?”

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe I’ll be able to feel how you do it and copy you.”

With a frown, Aziraphale took his hand, his palm warm and soft in Crowley’s. Reminding himself to breathe, Crowley touched the slightly battered bread again and Aziraphale mirrored him.

“Ready?”

Aziraphale nodded.

Closing his eyes, Crowley focused.

He felt it, the moment Aziraphale’s power rushed out of him, into the bread, into Crowley, burning up his arm and down his spine like lightning. He inhaled sharply, his heart seizing in his chest, his hand clenching around Aziraphale’s, unable to pull away as his body shuddered in protest.

Infernal power surged against Crowley’s control, an automatic defense, crackling between their palms and burning the bread to a black husk. Aziraphale gasped in pain.

Crowley jerked away with a yelp, nearly tipping over backwards, scrambling to put distance between them. They stared at each other across the scorched table, breathing heavily.

“You alright?”

Aziraphale nodded, looking down at his palm. “You?”

“Think so.” Crowley shook away the tingling in his hand. “What _was_ that?”

“How should I know?” Aziraphale grumbled, rubbing at his palm. “It was your idea.”

Curious, Crowley summoned a new loaf of bread into his hands. He thought of the way Aziraphale had felt, his divine power flowing through him, tried to summon that feeling. His palms began to burn, like he’d grabbed something just too hot for comfort.

“Crowley!”

Eyes flashing open, Crowley looked at the bread that glowed faintly in his palms. He dropped it and then immediately pumped the air. “Woo! I mean—right, cool.”

Mouth hanging open, Aziraphale picked up the loaf gingerly, turning it over in his hands as if scrutinizing a precious gem. “Incredible. It’s… You blessed it.”

“Hell yeah I did. Now you try.”

Brow puckered in concentration, Aziraphale glared at the bread as if trying to melt it with laser vision. It took a moment, then two, and then the energy in the room shifted, something softly dark radiating out of Aziraphale. The bread’s happy glow leached away, the smell of mold once again permeating the air. Aziraphale gently put the bread back on the table.

Crowley snatched it up for inspection and let out an impressed whistle. “That’s some cursed bread if I’ve ever seen any.”

“Well, certainly not as cursed as anything you could do, but I suppose it is passable.”

Crowley sent him a wide grin that Aziraphale tentatively returned. “We are in business, angel.”

Their new skills came in extremely handy over the next couple decades, especially when they were relocated nearly every two months, often to the same destination. It was only logical, Crowley insisted, that if they were _both_ meant to go to France, then _one_ of them could make the trip and do the blessing _and_ the curse. It was an argument every time, but Crowley expected no less from Aziraphale. It would take him a few centuries at least to get used to the idea of their collaborating together. Probably another few after that for him to stop protesting on principle.

Crowley understood, he really did. He realized that there was more to Aziraphale’s reluctance than an angel’s disdain for a demon – though there was some of that as well. Mostly, Aziraphale was afraid. Afraid of what would happen if they were found out. Afraid of not being a ‘proper’ angel, whatever that meant. Afraid – and this made Crowley’s demonic soul tingle undemonically – of what would happen to Crowley.

His fears were not unfounded, but they were also, in Crowley’s opinion, exaggerated. The difficult part was convincing him without insulting him. There weren’t any nice ways of saying ‘we won’t get caught because Heaven ignores you most of the time – I mean, you can count on one hand how many times they’ve checked up on you in the last millennium’. If there _was_ a nice way of saying it, he hadn’t figured it out yet.

But the ability to give out blessings wasn’t the only thing Crowley had gained that candlelit night in 1066. There was a low-level, incessant awareness in the back of his mind, which definitely had not been there before. At first, he didn’t even notice it or realize what it was. Not until the crusades.

**1099 AD**

Crowley was in Ceylon at the time, enjoying a bout of Buddhism, when he felt it.

Soul-deep dread, then burning agony in his chest, like a poker had been thrust through his ribs. He collapsed in the middle of the street, curling into himself, shock sucking the air from his lungs.

Humans stopped and stared, some kneeling at his side, asking him questions, touching him. His spectacles had fallen off and he clenched his eyes tightly shut, a cry wheezing out of him. That quiet, constant awareness in the back of his head flared. His eyes snapped open.

“_Aziraphale_.”

A human crouching by his head scrambled back. “Demon!”

Snarling, heart in his throat, Crowley miracled himself to the place he needed to be.

He found him in the middle of a massacre.

The stench of blood and suffering nearly brought Crowley to his knees again, the streets of Jerusalem blockaded by the corpses of the city’s inhabitants. Deeper in the city came the screams of further slaughter, but Crowley only had attention for Aziraphale. He stood, shoulders curled, arms wrapped around his chest. His robes were stained with his corporation’s blood, a seeping splotch of red that drained the colour from his face. Crowley nearly flew to him, aching to get him out of this place, but before he could get his bearings, he realized that Aziraphale was not alone.

In front of him stood the archangels Gabriel and Uriel.

Hissing, Crowley ducked around the corner of a building, holding his breath. His chest still ached fiercely.

“—could you be so careless?” Uriel was saying, voice hard.

“Certainly not your best work, Aziraphale,” Gabriel agreed.

Were they seriously scolding him, Crowley thought in disbelief, while he stood there with a _hole in his chest?_

“There seemed very little I could do,” Aziraphale managed, voice tight, “without risking more human lives.”

Uriel’s response was flat. “Your orders were not to save human lives.”

“You have to be more careful,” Gabriel tutted. “You know how much paperwork is involved if you get discorporated.”

Aziraphale was _still _standing there with a _hole_ in his _chest_.

“Let’s get out of here,” Uriel muttered. “It reeks.”

“Make sure you set things straight here, Aziraphale, and I won’t put a note in your file this time.”

“How kind of you,” Aziraphale murmured as the archangels left the earthly plane. As soon as they were gone, Aziraphale sunk to his knees with a groan, fresh blood seeping out from between his fingers.

“Angel!” Crowley was in front of him in seconds, dropping to his knees so they were on the same level. “For Hell’s sake, what happened?”

“What are you doing here?” he gasped, swaying.

“Those bassstardsss,” he seethed, pressing his palm to the sticky-hot wound. “This will hurt.”

Aziraphale whimpered as demonic power rushed into him and Crowley nearly cried out with him, willing his torn flesh and bones and muscles to mend faster. When at last the pain had faded and he was whole again, Crowley miracled away the blood stains, too. Aziraphale was warm and soft and real under his hands, and he had no reason to keep touching him.

Aziraphale’s hand covered his, trapping it against his chest. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Shut up,” he croaked. “You’ll get me in trouble.”

“You’re missing your spectacles.”

“Eh? Oh.” He tried pulling away again and this time Aziraphale let him. Crowley snapped his fingers and a fresh pair of tinted lenses materialized in his hands. As he slipped them on, he caught sight of a flicker of disappointment on Aziraphale's face. “Your bosses are right pricks.”

“Hush!” Aziraphale said sharply and glanced upwards. “They were right to be harsh. I’ve made rather a mess of things here.”

“What, they couldn’t spare two seconds to heal you before reaming you out?”

“It’s only a corporation,” Aziraphale said defensively, getting to his feet now. “It’s not as though the _actual_ me was injured.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.” He stood as well, eyeing Aziraphale’s chest.

“I deserve the consequences of my actions.”

“Ugh, stop being so self-deprecating.” Aziraphale blinked. “You don’t deserve to be tortured for mucking up a job. That’s the type of thing Hell likes to do.” The sounds of shouting got closer, pounding feet echoing through the streets as the crusaders took prisoners and looted their homes for valuables. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

“I can’t yet.” He twisted the ring on his finger, eyes sweeping over the bodies littering the street. “I still have to complete my orders.”

Crowley exhaled sharply. “Okay, what have we got to do?”

“We? You’ll help me?”

“Don’t tell the whole world, will you?”

Eyes suspiciously damp, Aziraphale smiled.

Aziraphale never did insist on knowing why Crowley was in Jerusalem. Fortunate, that. He didn’t think it would go over well if he told him ‘I think we exchanged a bit of our occult selves back in 1066 and that probably should have destroyed us, but instead I can feel when you’re in trouble, isn’t that great?’.

Less fortunately, the crusades were far from over, and both Heaven and Hell wanted a piece of them.

“Your people ever tell you how they decide which side to root for?” Crowley asked in 1144, as they waited for the next invasion to begin.

Aziraphale shook his head, reinforcing the city’s walls with divine power. Crowley didn’t know why he bothered; when the attackers arrived, Crowley would simply reinforce their weapons with infernal power. “Surely they want me to support whichever side advances the Almighty’s influence.”

“Seems to get a bit muddled after a while though, doesn’t it? I mean, one side attacks, the other retaliates. Then the first side retaliates for the retaliation, and it just goes on in circles until you forget who’s who and everyone feels like they’re the wronged one. You ask any human on either side and they’ll all tell you they’re following God’s plan.”

“Perhaps they all believe they are, but one side must be wrong.”

“It’s not that simple, angel.”

Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him. “Perhaps it is.”

“No human is all the way good or all the way bad.”

“Of course not.”

“Then where does Heaven get off giving blessings and miracles to one side when they’re no better than the other?”

“Because it’s part of the Almighty’s plan, Crowley!” Aziraphale looked at him at last, frustration in the lines in his forehead. “Because it’s Good and Right. That’s what angels do!”

“If that’s true, then Good and Evil sure look similar.”

It wasn’t a fight, not exactly. It was the same disagreement they always had, but they were both tense with the impending violence. Crowley was never sure if he wanted to convince Aziraphale that Heaven was a sham and Hell was no better, or if he wanted Aziraphale to convince him that there still was some order to the universe, some magical, unknown rules that would make everything make sense.

Humans had all sorts of theories, but the two of them were too close to it all. It was impossible to look at a forest objectively when your face was being ground into the leaves.

**1208 AD**

The tavern was dim and smoky, the air rich with the heady perfumes of hashish and tobacco and spices. Seekers of intoxication lay draped on mats on the floor and on cushions in cloistered alcoves, eyes heavy-lidded and smoke curling from their mouths. The man that Crowley had come to tempt swayed gently on the spot, expression dazed with infernal as well as botanical influences. Crowley guided him to sit in a nearby chair and left him to explore the small building, curiosity tugging him like an insistent child. His eyes watered and his throat tingled in the thick atmosphere, blood-shot stares following him sluggishly as he stepped over sprawling legs.

As dens of iniquity went, this wasn’t too shabby, but something was off. There was an odd feeling to the place, something that Crowley was fairly certain wasn’t to do with the copious amounts of pipes being smoked and hashish cakes being consumed.

The smoke really was a bit much. Crowley blinked, an odd sensation, that, and tripped over an errant leg. The owner of the leg grunted and Crowley stumbled into an alcove, getting a face-full of cushion.

“Ng, sorry, I – _Aziraphale?_”

They stared at each other across a mountain of pillows with matching expressions of shock.

“Crowley, dear! Whatever are you doing here?”

“What am _I_ doing here? I’m here for work, what are _you_ doing here?”

“Well.” He looked down at the pipe he held delicately in one hand, sweet smoke curling in his face. “That seems fairly obvious.” He brought up the pipe to his lips and took a long drag, sucking the pungent smoke into his lungs.

Crowley watched him with a horrified fascination. “You’re here for – for _recreation_?”

“I’ll have you know I’m quite fond of this establishment and will be very put-out if you have done anything to tarnish its reputation or services.”

“Don’t think I can tarnish it more than it already is.”

Aziraphale gave him an exasperated look that was tempered somewhat by the utter relaxation in every line of his body. Crowley had never seen him so relaxed.

“Would you care to try?” With a limp arm, Aziraphale took another drag and then offered him the pipe.

Crowley eyed it dubiously, pinching the stem between thumb and forefinger. “Isn’t this a bit…”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, parting his lips to let smoke drift from his mouth.

Crowley licked his lips. “Sinful?”

“No more so than alcohol,” Aziraphale said, and lay back in the pillows. “Go on, dear boy, give it a try.”

Crowley brought the pipe to his mouth, exquisitely aware that Aziraphale’s lips had been wrapped around the polished wood only seconds before. Suppressing a shiver, he inhaled, feeling his lungs tingle and burn in protest. He immediately set to coughing.

“Just let it happen.” Aziraphale laid a hand over his, stopping him from snapping to miracle away the irritant. “You need to let your body absorb it.”

Still coughing, eyes watering, Crowley glared and accepted the cup of water Aziraphale pressed into his hand. “You like this?” he wheezed.

“You get used to it. Take a sip and try again.” Aziraphale leaned out of their cozy nook and an attendant was at his side in moments, offering him another pipe which Aziraphale accepted with a smile.

They drew their next puff together, Crowley breaking out into more coughing while Aziraphale somehow managed to lounge primly, watching him with amusement. Crowley wasn’t used to being the uncool one around Aziraphale, it was throwing him off.

“What even made you try this in the first place?” he croaked, sipping more water.

“Heaven encourages having humans use it before we give them visions. It helps their minds accept what we show them.”

Crowley took a third draw, sternly telling his lungs that enough was enough. They quivered in protest, but the coughing stopped. “You give visions to high people? How are they meant to distinguish a Heavenly vision from a regular hallucination?”

“Sometimes they don’t. If it is meant to be, it’ll be.” He breathed in more smoke and Crowley copied him. “Do you feel anything yet?”

Crowley considered, lying back in the pillows. “My head feels heavy.”

“Oh, lovely. So does mine.”

Crowley sucked in more plant smoke, his vision going wavy and his bones going more noodly than usual. “This feels a bit slothful.”

“I suppose it can be, yes.”

“An’ you’re okay with that?” His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth. Also his mouth was dry. “Can’t help but notice that making a human smoke to make ‘em more suggestible ‘s not quite the same as an angel doing it.”

Aziraphale’s smile was sarcastic and pinched and it looked so wrong on his face that Crowley immediately regretted asking.

“If you must know, I’m on disciplinary leave.”

Crowley’s will over his lungs faltered and he hacked incredulously. “Eh? Wha’ for?”

“It was your fault, in a way.” Aziraphale looked at the pipe in his hands, fingers smoothing over the bowl’s smooth lip. “I was thinking about what you’d said about one side being no better than the other. I was convinced you were wrong. One side _had_ to be the Good side, otherwise why would I be tasked with protecting them? But then my orders changed.”

It felt like there was a lump of ice in his chest. “Heaven changed sides.”

Aziraphale nodded. “The absurdity of it hit me then. Now tasked with protecting the other side, the people I had been led to believe were Evil, I saw how they suffered, how they raged against the people I had thought were Good. And I realized that you were right.” He glanced up and Crowley flinched at the look in his eyes. “There appeared to be very little difference between Good and Evil.”

The pipe slipped from his fingers. “Angel—”

“It’s all relative, Crowley. Which means the fighting will never stop, because both sides – all the sides – think they’re right. I always thought the fighting was worthwhile because the goal was to eventually _end_ the fighting, but I couldn’t… How am I meant to bless them and encourage them when I know – all I could do was try to convince them to _cease_ the fighting – but that wasn’t what Gabriel –”

“_Aziraphale_.” Crowley seized his hands and shook off his glasses, the ice in his chest replaced by molten panic. “Don’t say that – you can’t say such – _look at me_.”

Hazy, helpless eyes focused on his earnest, yellow ones.

“You can’t listen to all the crap I say, I’m a demon, I doubt things, I question things, I can’t help it!”

“But—”

“It might be relative for the humans, but not for us, okay? _It can’t be for us._”

Aziraphale’s bottom lip trembled. His hands quivered under Crowley’s palms. Crowley had to stop this. He couldn’t have Aziraphale thinking like… He would not let Aziraphale follow in his footsteps.

“They’ll keep fighting whether we interfere or not. One day, they’ll settle it, or get tired of it, and stop, but they’ll do it all on their own. It’s free will, remember, angel? It’s not your fault and no matter what side you’re ordered to help, all you can do is keep spreading Good, like you always do. And I’ll be there to spread foment, like I always do. Okay?”

Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley’s brain ceased to function. He could do little more than sit there and process the sensations of Aziraphale’s soft, sweet lips on his, Aziraphale’s feather-light touch on his wrists, Aziraphale’s nose brushing against his.

A wounded sound squirmed out of Crowley’s chest. His eyes slipped closed, his hands cupped Aziraphale’s beloved face, his fingers weaved through messy curls. Aziraphale’s hands settled on his waist, their lips moving together slowly, carefully, and Crowley forgot to breathe, entire body aching to get closer, closer. Pillows in the way and Crowley crawled over them, tilting Aziraphale’s head back to maintain the kiss, and Aziraphale tugged him closer, closer, to straddle his legs, their chests brushing, his hands sliding up Crowley’s back.

Heat shot through him, heat like he had never felt before. Not a bad heat, not the bite of Hellfire or the cold burn of consecrated ground, but a delicious, tingling warmth that bloomed and bloomed and set his skin ablaze. His head still swam, his nerves hypersensitive, yet his body was languid and eager. He whimpered into Aziraphale’s mouth and Aziraphale’s hands clenched on his ribs, Lust bursting out of him.

Crowley was high. Intoxicated in more ways than one and out of control, his senses creeping out of him, sending their dark, invasive tendrils into Aziraphale’s soul. He had never used them on Aziraphale before, but now he could taste it, his brain lighting up with Aziraphale’s desire. Aziraphale _wanted_ him, _desired_ him, _ached_ for him, and Crowley’s hips sought out his, this new need hijacking his body. He had an erection – he had never had an erection before, had never needed one before.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, hands sliding to his hips, lips sliding to his throat, and Crowley’s eyes rolled back, unfettered pleasure skittering down his spine.

He moaned, the sound shocking in the quiet room, his head filled with smoke and Aziraphale’s desire, Aziraphale’s desire for him, Aziraphale’s desire for everything to make sense, Aziraphale’s desire to belong, Aziraphale’s desire to be what Heaven wanted him to be—

Wait.

Crowley grabbed his shoulders and shoved, sending both of them tumbling back into the pillows. Aziraphale’s lips were red and plump and Crowley’s skin throbbed deliciously with his kisses. Flushed and wide-eyed, sporting an erection of his own, Aziraphale pushed himself up.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale wanted him. Crowley knew he did and he could give him that. He could give Aziraphale himself. He _wanted_ to, his whole body and self wanted to. But Aziraphale wanted something else more.

Why did Crowley have to love him so blessedly much?

Breath still coming quick, Crowley gasped, “I won’t have ssssex with you ssso you can punish yourssself.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

Satan, did he want it. He wanted it and Crowley was going to give in if he stayed one second longer. Aziraphale's desire pulsed out of him and now that Crowley could sense it, he couldn’t seem to turn it _off_. “We can’t. Not like this. Not when you’re… We can’t.”

Dizzy with it all, Crowley crawled out of their suffocating nest of pillows. Aziraphale’s fingers grazed his back. “Crowley.”

Crowley shook his head, willing the intoxication out of his system, noxious smoke seeping from his pores. “Angel. I gotta go.” He manifested a new pair of glasses. “I’ll talk to you…later.”

“_Crowley_.”

Crowley couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t or he’d fall to his knees and beg for more. Demons didn’t beg. Running a hand roughly through his hair, he steeled himself. “Think it through, angel. Do you really want me, a demon?”

“I…”

Crowley looked at him then, found him confused, face open and searching. “It’s okay.”

Aziraphale frowned at him, disbelieving, and Crowley fled.

He was too disoriented to walk home so he miracled himself there instead, bracing against the nearest wall to stop himself from collapsing. His body still craved and ached in new, frightening ways. Biting his lip, he shoved down his trousers and peeked down at his hard, trembling flesh.

“This is your fault,” he grumbled, thinking of Aziraphale’s lips on his skin, his hands on his waist. He drew two curious fingers down the length of himself and his knees nearly buckled, pleasure shooting through him like nothing he had ever felt before. “Ah,” he whined, and did it again, remembering the sensation of Aziraphale’s hands clenching on his hips, his tongue lathing across his throat, his warmth between Crowley’s legs.

The pleasure spiked, shock waves through his whole body, and he came. “Ah, fuck, _fuck_.” His cock twitched in his hand like a living thing, liquid shooting out of him, and his hips jerked automatically, pushing his cock into his grip. His forehead hit the wall as the pleasure washed over him, decimated him, the only thing in his mind an image of Aziraphale embracing him while it happened.

“Fucking-fuck.” He knocked his head against the wall, then twice more for good measure.

Aziraphale was on a slippery slope and Crowley was not going to let him fall down it.


	9. 1208 AD - 1425 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley comes to terms with Lust and really hates the 14th century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a good chunk of writing done, finally, so here's an early Xmas present!

**1208 AD**

A beast had been woken up inside of him.

Crowley’s body, which had never been more than a tool of his trade, had turned on him. It betrayed him at random and inopportune times: at the market, when he smelled Aziraphale’s favourite bread; near the corner bookshop, when he saw a tome Aziraphale would devour; in the tailor’s, when he eyed a ruffled sleeve Aziraphale would drool over.

Perhaps, he realized, after dreaming of Aziraphale with his hips squirming against his mattress, it wasn’t so random after all. Groaning, he shoved a hand under himself to grip his stiff cock, already panting into his pillow as pleasure swept through his traitorous body. His imagination unhelpfully supplied images and sounds of Aziraphale, eyelashes lowered coyly, tongue darting to lick wine from his lips, a moan of delight as he bit into a buttery pastry.

“Ohh--” Crowley bit his pillow and fucked his fist to completion, choking on human pleasure.

This was a disaster. How was he meant to face his Enemy while his body insisted on acting this way?

He decided to stop making an Effort for a while, but still the lust simmered, unable to escape. He was a pot of boiling water with the lid welded shut.

He tried switching equipment and, oh, was that a mistake. For three days he could hardly leave his bed, his thighs wet with his own pleasure, his clitoris swollen and oversensitive, whimpers in his throat as he squeezed his labia and pushed fingers into himself. The ecstasy was consuming in this form, orgasms that wracked his entire body and went on for _ages_ – and after one he didn’t want to _stop_.

He spent another week Effortless, trying to convince himself he could get used to it – this was how his body had been for the first several centuries, after all. It was fine, he told himself, no matter how oddly his trousers fit or how tight it made his skin feel. Until he dreamt of Aziraphale’s lips on his neck and woke tangled in his sheets, a raging _need_ thrumming through him.

“Ngh.” He writhed, skin tingling and toes curling, the beast hunting for an outlet. He regretted, deeply and fully, every human he had ever tempted with Lust. He forced himself to lie still, not even breathing, counting in his head – backwards, in Farsi – until at last he calmed.

Exhaling carefully, he sat up, looking down at his stupid body. This was the complete opposite of cool, the very antithesis of being in control. Worse, it was _embarrassing_. What if he ran into Aziraphale and his body _reacted_ like this? “Fine. You win.”

He manifested a cock and balls and went for a walk.

He tempted – not the demonic way, but the human way, with insinuating looks and suggestive touches – beautiful women and handsome men, then beautiful men and handsome women, and everything in between. He tried short and tall, slim and fat, young and old, all variety of humans who were unmarried, unattached, and interested in a strange person with red hair and hidden eyes.

None of it worked.

His body, it seemed, knew what he wanted, and it was none of the humans who gazed at him covetously and stroked him with eager hands. His body would respond to none other than a man-shaped, pale-haired, high-strung, fussily-dressed angel.

“Goddammit!” He slammed a fist against the wall and his newest victim jumped, hands pulling away from where they had begun to grope at Crowley’s decidedly uninterested nether regions. “Sorry, not your fault,” he muttered.

The man, pale-haired and fussily-dressed, but certainly no angel, watched him in the moonlight, hands hovering between them. “Are you…is it… Is there someone else?”

Crowley huffed a laugh, stepping back and collapsing into the single chair in the miniscule bedchamber. “You could say that.”

The human smoothed down his shirt. “You could have said so.”

“What difference does it make?”

“I don’t do men who are _involved_.”

“We’re not _involved_,” Crowley snapped. “Whatever that means.”

The human – Crowley thought his name was John – paused in doing up his buttons. “But you want to be.” His eyes were compassionate, but all Crowley saw was pity.

Crowley hissed at him, really hissed, satisfied to see the human cower against the closed door. “Get out.”

“You invited _me_ here,” he said, voice high and petulant.

“And now you’re _un_invited.”

Clothes in place, probably-John ran a hand through his hair. “Prick. No wonder he’ll have nothing to do with you.”

Those words hit Crowley like a sack of potatoes to the chest. He snarled, something terrible inside of him, transforming his face into the demon he was. Probably-John went pale, scrambling for the door handle and tumbling out of the room, his footsteps pounding out a panicked rhythm. The door swung gently shut behind him.

Crowley hunched in the chair, running his hands over his face, making sure it was human again – as human as was possible for him to be. 

After a couple decades, he learned to control it. He had tried various human tricks – odd foods and potions and bizarre undergarments, the last of which he had sent back to Hell with a note that read ‘Attention to: Lust Department’ – but it was time that helped his body settle. The merest reminder of Aziraphale no longer sent his blood immediately rushing south, though thoughts of his touch were still dangerous. He had replayed the memory of their kisses so many times that Crowley was half convinced that he had hallucinated the whole thing. Half convinced that he’d been projecting his own desires onto Aziraphale.

He still wasn’t sure of what had happened that evening. All he was certain of was that Aziraphale had been all over the place, desire-wise. That he had been dangerously close to questioning Heaven and disobeying orders – treachery that no angel could recover from.

When they ran into each other again, things between them were…different. The casual touches stopped, for one, which was probably for the best. They never smoked together again, for another. There was a new cautiousness between them, a hesitance to every interaction that reminded Crowley of their first millennium, when he had still been trying to gauge whether the angel was going to discorporate him the first chance he got.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way their conversations were overly polite. Didn’t like the way he was always conscious of the distance between them. Didn’t like that he couldn’t interpret the odd way Aziraphale watched him sometimes. He wanted things back to normal. Back to their normal anyway – the normal where Crowley wasn’t afraid Aziraphale would decide he wanted nothing to do with him.

So, Crowley began rigging their coin tosses.

“Tails, bless it,” he grumbled, stuffing the coin in his pocket as they ambled down the street, just two figures amongst a sea of people. “S’pose I’m going to Constantinople, then. Who’s the guy I’m meant to be blessing?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped with poorly disguised relief. “The emperor. He needs improving – I’m supposed to convince him to build some churches, libraries, that sort of thing.”

“Right, doesn’t sound too hard.” What Aziraphale wasn’t saying, was that the new emperor and his new churches would come at the cost of abolishing the existing customs of the people. That kind of thing didn’t sit well with Aziraphale.

Whenever Heaven gave Aziraphale a job that strained his concept of Good, Crowley made use of the Arrangement to take that job on himself. It wasn’t necessarily the job itself that made Aziraphale balk – he was perfectly capable of doing Hell’s dirty work when it was his turn, after all. It was that the orders came from Heaven.

Crowley, who saw Heaven for what it really was, would happily do some of their more dubious jobs so that Aziraphale didn’t have to.

“Any requests for the library?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale paused by a market stall to buy a pastry. He walked a half circle around Aziraphale’s back, looking out at the crowds around them, an instinct he'd picked up after finding Aziraphale near discorporation in 1099. “If I’m going to be convincing him to build one?”

There was a terribly soft expression on Aziraphale’s face, an expression that Crowley was becoming uncomfortably familiar with. It was dangerous, Aziraphale making expressions like that around him, and they had only become more common since their disastrous experience with hashish. This was incredibly unfair, since Crowley’s immense effort to put some distance between them had apparently had the opposite effect.

“Oh, anything, dear.” He bit into his pastry with delight, falling back into step at Crowley’s right side. Crowley’s feet very nearly stumbled when Aziraphale made a pleased noise as he chewed. “When it comes to books I’m not picky.”

“Some nice demonic scripts then? A black magic spell or two?”

“If you could lay your hands on such things, I would be very impressed, indeed.”

“I’ll do my best then.”

It was comfortable, if somewhat stunted, this partnership they had. Things, Crowley thought, were finally looking up.

Then came the fourteenth century.

It wasn’t so bad at first. The first decade or so was fairly uneventful; mostly Crowley was bored. But then 1315 rolled around and Famine made an appearance.

“Hello, Crawly,” Famine greeted him in Scandinavia, smiling with rows of needle-sharp teeth. “Fine weather we’re having, isn’t?”

It had been raining all spring throughout Europe, enough so that the farmers were getting nervous, and now Crowley knew that the rain wouldn’t be lifting any time soon. “It’s Crowley now. And a bit damp for my tastes.”

“Needs must, unfortunately.” He smiled wider, skin stretching tight over too-prominent bones. Crowley’s stomach hurt just looking at him, a gnawing, aching hunger that twisted his intestines. “I’m planning something big.”

“Oh, yeah?” Crowley began inching the other way, wrapping an arm around his belly. “Well, good luck with that, gotta run, lots of wiles to do, y’know.”

Famine only smiled after him.

The next several years were Hellish, and Crowley knew. Bread became unaffordable, livestock was slaughtered for the meat, children were abandoned, the elderly voluntarily stopped eating to save the young, crime rates skyrocketed.

By the time Pestilence stopped by to prey on the weak, Crowley was about ready to retire.

“Not you, too?” he complained, when he found the filthy, oozing creature bestowing a kiss to a child that already appeared skeletal. “What am I meant to do with you lot making a mess of the place?”

“Just enjoy the show, serpent,” they wheezed with the beleaguered lungs of the pneumatic.

“Haven’t been a snake in five millennia now.” The child began to quake with fever and Pestilence moved on to their next victim.

The people’s confidence in the church plummeted, their prayers going unanswered as the rains returned year after year, as the food stores ran out, as disease spread. Death started making the rounds and Crowley abandoned ship and popped over to Japan.

“It’s a nightmare,” Crowley admitted, drinking _sake_ like water while Aziraphale fumbled with a pair of chopsticks. “You know everyone’s turning on the church, don’t you? They’re losing faith. Why isn’t Heaven doing anything?”

“I wish I knew. I’ve been ordered to stay out of it.” A piece of sushi slipped from between his chopsticks.

“There’s no balance, angel. At this rate I’ll be deemed redundant. I’m gonna get recalled back to Hell because there’s no way I can make things any worse!”

Giving up on the chopsticks, Aziraphale plucked up the piece of sushi with his fingers, dipped it in his tiny bowl of soy sauce, and popped it in his mouth. His happy little smile ticked Crowley off just then.

“You don’t even need to eat, angel, and there are people starving to death!”

Aziraphale’s smile disappeared and guilt reared its ugly head. What did Crowley have to be guilty about? Wasn’t Aziraphale always insisting on being truthful? Well, there was some cold, hard truth for him. Crowley washed away the bitter taste in his mouth with a burning swig of _sake_.

Aziraphale dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Does me enjoying a roll of sushi somehow make the famine worse?”

Crowley crossed his arms, looking out at the other restaurant patrons. “No.”

“Are you suggesting that I should stop eating out of solidarity?”

Now Crowley just felt stupid. “No,” he mumbled, sinking into his chair.

Aziraphale hummed and fell silent. He took a sip of his own _sake_. He folded his napkin neatly then placed it on the table. Then he grabbed his still-full plate and stood.

“Where are you going?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Perhaps I was being a bit insensitive with this.”

Crowley sat up straighter. “You’re not going to finish it?”

“I think, my dear, that you should order another bottle or two of that lovely rice wine, while I go and offer this sushi to someone who needs it much more than I. How does that sound?”

Crowley made an unintelligible sound and watched as Aziraphale left the restaurant, plate of sushi in hand. By the time he returned with the empty plate, Crowley and three bottles of _sake_ were ready for him. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow but accepted his cup without complaint.

As was becoming a habit for them when the world felt mad and there was nothing they could do about it, they proceeded to get sloshed.

By 1322 the lingering effects of Famine had mostly faded and Crowley got on with things. Then in 1337, War made her appearance.

“It’s time to shake things up a bit around here, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked, grinning with bloodstained teeth.

Crowley shrugged and contemplated the ramifications of moving to Madagascar. “You’re the expert.”

England and France went to war, dragging all their allies into it, and the constant state of conflict humans seemed to find themselves in worsened exponentially.

In 1347 Pestilence came back from a trip in Asia, cradling in their gangrenous hands a rat that scratched at fleas. The famine, apparently, had only been a warm-up. “I think I’ll stay for a while,” said Pestilence, and set the rat free.

Crowley did not care to think about the following several years. He had a perpetual migraine from clenching his jaw and he had to make himself a darker pair of glasses to hide the red glow of his eyes. He decided to simply stop breathing for a time.

There was no escape from it and the fear turned everyone mad. Persecutions, self-flagellations, the infected abandoned in the streets.

For several months he didn’t do a single temptation or wile, except to convince people to run and save themselves. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold it together.

“Oi, God!” he screamed at an abandoned church, the earth freshly turned with new graves. No passersby spared him a glance – his was far from the first outburst directed at the church. “This part of your Great Plan, too? This something you’re okay with? What kind of test _is_ this? Cuz I have to say, I’m _glad_ I Fell. I’d happily spend a _millennium_ locked in a room with _Hastur_ rather than condone the likes of this.”

Maybe he wasn’t holding it together all that well. He really _hated_ the fourteenth century.

**1425 AD**

“I’m meant to head to France next week,” Aziraphale said, and slid one of his game pieces to a new square on the board. “Big project coming up.”

“Oh, yeah? Anything I should be worried about?”

“Nothing that will impact you directly, I should think.”

Crowley grunted and slurped the foam off of his beer. He moved one of his game pieces out of the way.

“So, now that I’ve divulged my heavenly plans to you, perhaps you’d be kind enough to share your demonic ones?”

“I’m not kind,” Crowley said automatically, narrowing his eyes. He had been in a bit of a mood since the fourteenth century. Demons were meant to be dour, anyway.

Aziraphale flicked a hand. “Figure of speech.”

“I’m meant to head to France, too, actually.” He moved a piece. “Got a couple temptations to perform.”

Aziraphale’s hand twitched over the board. “Oh?”

“Flip a coin for it?”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Crowley propped his chin in his hand to look at him beseechingly. “We do it all the time. What’s the harm?”

“Not this time, dear.” There was a finality to his tone that made Crowley sit up straight. That wasn’t his ‘no, but you can convince me’ tone. That was his ‘no, and I mean it’ tone.

“What, really? What’s so important about this project? Sure I couldn’t help out?”

“No, absolutely not!”

Crowley’s eyebrows drew up. “Alright. I suppose we’re both going to France then.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale fiddled with one of the game pieces he had captured. “Perhaps I ought to do the temptations as well. No use you travelling all that way.”

Crowley stared at him. What the Heaven was Aziraphale hiding? “What the Heaven are you hiding?”

“Nothing!”

“You have never offered to do any of my jobs before.”

“I’ve decided I ought to be more generous. I am an angel after all.”

This was a gift horse whose mouth Crowley dearly wanted to look at. “So you’re just going to…move to France and do my temptations for me. While also doing your big mysterious project?”

“Precisely.”

Crowley looked at the game board. He captured one of Aziraphale’s pieces. “What if I want to go to France?”

“Do you?” His voice was not normally that shrill.

Crowley shrugged. “They’ve invented this thing called a crepe that I’ve been meaning to try.”

“I’ll bring some back for you.”

Hoo boy, did Crowley want to go to France now. This required demonic tactics. “Alright you’ve convinced me. I’ll let you do the temptations for me.”

“Oh, good! I mean, not good, but, yes, right, you know what I mean.”

“Sure, angel.” Crowley captured another one of his pieces.

The village of Domrémy was in shambles, buildings burnt and ransacked, the people busy with repair efforts. Just down the street, Aziraphale was speaking with a peasant, and Crowley slipped behind a wagon to stay out of sight. It made him feel like a proper demon, this spying business.

A woman washing her family’s clothes eyed him suspiciously. “What happened here?” Crowley asked in her language, pitching his voice up to match his disguise.

There was an attack, she explained, by an _English_ gang. The people had been warned to abandon their homes or perish, but many had since returned. Her family had lost nearly everything, even the church was destroyed, and Lord only knew when the next attack would be…

While she droned on, Crowley noticed that Aziraphale was gone. “_Merde_.”

He loped down the street and snapped his fingers. The human Aziraphale had been talking to froze, face smoothing into a complacent mask. That really was a neat trick.

“Hi, excuse me, that man who was just talking to you, did he say what he was up to here?”

The human blinked at him. “He is looking for the house of Jeanne D’arc.”

Crowley gave him a charming smile. “And where is the house of Jeanne D’arc?”

Jeanne, it turned out, was practically still a kid, and Crowley watched in confusion as Aziraphale laid a hand on her head. What was so special about this blessing that he didn’t want Crowley to know about?

Then the air around them rippled with some dark power, and Crowley’s confusion deepened to concern. She stood there, looking up at Aziraphale docilely, while he infused her with something Heavenly, but not Good. Crowley felt a shiver of alarm.

“What are you doing to her?”

Aziraphale nearly stumbled as he spun to face him, his face a mask of shock. “Crowley! What on Earth—”

Crowley lounged against a tree as loungingly as he knew how. “Surprise.”

Aziraphale’s face flickered between guilt and offense. “You lied to me.”

“I did not! I never said I wouldn’t come to France.”

Aziraphale huffed. “A trick, then.”

“Hardly my fault you weren’t paying attention.”

“Begone, fiend. I have business to attend to.”

“Yeah, about that.” The girl stood, eyes vacant. “Care to explain?”

“It’s really none of your business, Crowley, just a routine blessing.”

Crowley’s eyebrows flew up. “You’re lying. I know what a routine blessing feels like and this isn’t it.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, looking at the girl wistfully. “I really wish you hadn’t come, dear.”

Crowley pushed off the tree. “Angel. My curiosity is killing me here.”

“There’s a prophecy in the country,” he admitted, fingers twisting together, “that a virgin of Lorraine will save France.”

Crowley looked at the girl again, who appeared not to register any of this. “We’re not in Lorraine.”

“Close enough.”

Crowley snorted. “And how is she meant to save France?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t know. The Almighty will tell her. I have given her a Connection.”

Crowley gaped. “A Connection? You made a direct Connection between her brain and _God_?”

“Well, I’ve heard that it’s mostly the Metatron doing the actual talking these days, but that is the idea.”

Crowley thought of the absolute mindfuck it was every time Satan decided to drop a line directly into his head and tried to imagine how much worse it would be with God. And for a _human_. “That sounds painful.”

“It will be.” Aziraphale turned compassionate eyes on her. “But you’ll be very brave, won’t you, dear girl? You have been given a great honour and responsibility.”

“_Oui, monsieur ange_.”

Aziraphale smiled at her and let his appearance slip a smidge, a bit of heavenly light seeping out of him to warm her awed face. Crowley squinted and looked away. “You were having a lovely dream of whatever you like best. Run along to your parents now.” He snapped his fingers and awareness returned to her eyes, a peaceful smile lighting her face as she returned home.

Once she was safely inside, Aziraphale turned to face him, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “You’re not angry with me?”

Crowley was angry. Angry that Heaven had gotten its claws into a defenseless child. Angry that they would use her for their own purposes, use her up and burn her with Grace from the inside out until her body couldn’t take it any longer. “Why would I be angry with you?”

Aziraphale made his way for the street. “I know how you feel about children getting caught up in our line of work.”

Falling into step beside him, Crowley eyed him behind his glasses. He had been trying to be considerate, Crowley realized, by not letting Crowley take this job. And he hadn’t wanted Crowley to come because he _cared what Crowley thought of him_.

Stunned, besotted, hopeful, terrified, it was all Crowley could do to keep walking without tripping over his feet.

“She – she’ll be a martyr,” Aziraphale stuttered, voice strained. “She’s guaranteed a spot into Heaven after her work here, not – not that she has any choice in the matter, but it’s all part of –”

“The Plan,” they said at the same time.

Aziraphale peeked at him. “Yes.”

“I know.” Crowley recovered somewhat, enough to notice how nervous Aziraphale was. “I’m not angry with you, angel.”

“Oh. Oh!” Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged, a smile spreading his lips and he turned to face Crowley fully. “You’re not? Well. That is – I mean. Jolly good.”

“Jolly good,” Crowley repeated, chest sore from his heart trying to hammer its way out. “Did you just make that up?”

“It’s a delightful saying; it’ll catch on.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

Six years later, they stood amongst the crowd to bear witness as Jeanne was tied to a stake and burned alive. If Crowley took the opportunity to bestow her captors and executioners with curses strong enough that Satan could feel it, well, that was one wile Aziraphale could turn a blind eye to.


	10. 1482 AD - 1601 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a quaint, family-owned pub somewhere in Italy, a demon was doing something that could be generously called lurking, but more accurately labeled as sulking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

**1482 AD**

In a quaint, family-owned pub somewhere in Italy, a demon was doing something that could be generously called lurking, but more accurately labeled as sulking. He had been slouched in a dark corner with a drink (and sometimes two) in hand for the better part of a week. The world had decided to shimmer like a drunken mirage at some point. In fact, it took him several moments to realize that the apparition of an angel taking a seat across from him was not an apparition at all, but the real thing.

“You know,” Aziraphale said, as if continuing a conversation rather than greeting him for the first time in over a year, “I’ve heard many strange tales about you recently.”

Crowley was happy to see Aziraphale. He propped his chin on one of the empty wine bottles. It wobbled dangerously. “Yeah?”

“A man who is here all day, every day this week. Word on the street is that you are a traveller who has returned to find his entire family deceased. So consumed by grief are you that you are possessed by the devil himself to sit here and drink yourself to death.”

“Oops.” Normally Crowley would divert people’s suspicion with a quick miracle, but he had been a bit careless lately. “Thought I ‘s taking care o’ that.”

“Evidently not.”

“Evidently not,” Crowley mimicked, and drank some more.

“Crowley. Whatever is the matter?”

“Matter? Nothing’s the matter, why’d you think something’s the matter?”

Aziraphale eyed the small mountain of bottles on and around the table. As an angel, he had that judgemental look down to a science. Crowley couldn’t help the defensiveness that rose automatically.

“I’m cellar-celebrating!”

“Celebrating what, exactly?”

“You heard what the Catholics’re getting up to?” he stage-whispered, then rummaged through his pockets with the coordination of an overtired toddler. “’Cause it sure as Hell came as a surprise to me.” He slapped his most recent commendation on the sticky table between them.

With a look of distaste, Aziraphale peeled the limp paper off the table, pinching it with thumb and forefinger as he read. His face fell, sorrowful eyes flicking Crowley’s way. “Oh, my dear.”

“You know what the rack is? They tie a person’s wrists an’ ankles, then tighten the ropes ‘til their arms an’ legs just - _tear_ \- right off. Fuckin’ inventive ‘s what it is.”

“I had heard they were getting a bit overenthusiastic—”

“Oh, they’re well past that, angel. ‘S bordering on manic, insane, poss-possibly even pure Evil.” Crowley tried to make that sound like a good thing, but his voice was raw from all the alcohol.

Aziraphale snatched the wine bottle out of Crowley’s hand and took a swig. “Surely you can just send a note back to Hell and explain that there has been a mistake—”

“I will not,” Crowley declared, possibly too loudly based on the way Aziraphale flinched and looked around in embarrassment. He picked up a mug of ale. “Do y’know whatta boon I’ve been given? They think I did that – I’ll be famous, they’ll love me down there.”

“Excuse me, but I just don’t see what the problem is, then.”

He ought sober up. Aziraphale was looking at him like he was actually listening to what Crowley was saying for once and it made Crowley want to tell him all sorts of things. As a demon, that was never a good idea.

“What the Inquisition’s doing, ’s diabolical, Evil, everything a demon should love – er, whatever.” He ought to sober up, but then he’d remember the sound of joints popping out of sockets. He shuddered. “I could never’ve thought it up. Even if I had I could never’ve done it. I’mma demon, but I could never – I can’t – ’s terrible, Aziraphale, and I hate it and what kind of demon am I?”

Crowley stared into his ale, the top of his head burning under Aziraphale’s gaze.

“I feel the same.”

Crowley nodded his head glumly.

“About myself I mean.”

“Eh?”

“How do you think I feel, an angel of the Lord, knowing that the humans are using religion to torture and kill other humans? My job is to guide them towards the light, but instead they twist the words of the Almighty.”

Crowley’s head swayed as he processed this.

“Sometimes I feel like a bad angel.”

“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” he said slowly. His lips felt a bit numb. “You’re ssso nicsse. You exsss-exorcised that demon that one time. You’re a great angel.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’m not sure your opinion counts though. You’re a demon.”

Crowley blew a raspberry, lips vibrating against each other. “It’s not ‘cause I’m a demon. Here, look. Hey, hey.” Crowley leaned over precariously to tap the shoulder of a human slumped over the table next to them. “Hey. You know an angel better than Aziraphale?”

The human waved his head side to side.

“There, see? No better angel than you.”

“Oh, thank you, dear, you have no idea how much that means to me. I’ve always thought you are an exemplary demon.”

“Nah.” It was too much effort to sit straight. His whole body felt simultaneously leaden and weightless, like his very being was about to float out of his meat-sack. “’M not a very good demon. Er…bad demon. Whatever. I gotta pretend to be extra Evil in Hell. ‘S why I gotta take credit for the In-Inquisition.”

“No, you’re wonderful!” Aziraphale leaned towards him, expression earnest. “Remember that time you confused all those poor carrier pigeons, and everyone’s mail was mixed up for months. Everyone was furious.”

Crowley grinned and knocked his knee against Aziraphale’s. “That was pretty demonic wasn’t it.”

“Incredibly so!”

“Guess we have our moments.” Crowley raised his mug to that, but found it empty. He could have sworn it was at least half full a second ago.

“I think it’s time to go, don’t you?”

The number of empty bottles really was impressive and Crowley’s clothes had seen less wrinkled days. The pub’s proprietor was eyeing him nervously. “Suppose so,” he muttered, and sobered up with a groan. After a week of intoxication, everything felt at once too sharp and entirely off-kilter. He groaned again, running his tongue over his teeth.

Without a drunken haze obscuring his vision, Aziraphale looked somewhat ragged himself. It was as if all his years of existence were now occupying the lines of his face.

“Sure you don’t want to finish what I started here?” Crowley asked, waving his hands at the remnants of the wine.

Aziraphale’s smile was more of a grimace. “Better not. I do have rather a lot of work to be getting on with.”

“Right, right. ‘Course.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Perhaps there is time for a quick spot of lunch, however.”

Crowley straightened up. “Always time for lunch, that’s what I say.”

“You never say that,” Aziraphale protested, leading the way out into the sunny day.

**1533 AD**

The sixteenth century was a breath of fresh air in many respects. The humans were discovering all sorts of things, while Crowley watched in fascination. There was Da Vinci, who was a properly clever bloke; Nostradamus, whom Aziraphale was fond of; and Copernicus, whom Crowley rather liked, if only because he figured out the whole Earth goes around the sun bit.

Then England had to go and publish what was distastefully known as the Buggery Act.

“Humans,” Crowley said, chucking bread chunks at ducks, “have a distressing tendency to take things that are enjoyable, and make them taboo or illegal. As self-sabotage goes, it’s unparalleled.”

“Everything in moderation, my dear.”

“Moderation! Who decides how much is moderation and how much is too much? It’s arbitrary. You sleep for eight hours, you’re fine, but nine and it’s sloth. You can have one piece of cake, but a second makes you a glutton.”

“Well, there has to be some sort of cut-off point. Otherwise how would we know who’s Good and who’s Bad?”

“Someone’s keeping track then? Up there? Someone’s got a clipboard with a tally going, ‘oh, dear me, this human had sex with six other humans, if it were five it would be fine, but six and _whoop!_ down you go’.”

“Oh, the number doesn’t matter, it’s the intent.”

“Eh?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s fine as long as there’s Love involved and everyone consents.”

“So…” the sack of bread crumbs nearly fell from his fingers. “What really? Body count doesn’t come into it?”

“Body c – of course not, what an atrocious thought.” Aziraphale relieved him of the bag and began tossing the crumbs towards the ducks with much worse aim. He wasn’t hitting any of the feathered vermin.

“And gender? Does that matter?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No one has time for that. Adultery is all Heaven really cares about, which, by the way, doesn’t include open relationships, or relationships with more than two people.”

“You know, it might be good for the humans to know that.”

“Yes, they’ve got it a bit confused.”

Crowley snapped his fingers and a copy of the newest law appeared in his hand. “Buggery is an unnatural sexual act against the will of God and man,” he quoted, waving the paper in Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale grimaced.

“That’s not just ‘a bit confused’. They’ve got it completely wrong!”

“I don’t actually control human legal systems, Crowley.”

“Do you realize that _we_ could be punished with this law?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened and Crowley attempted to swallow his own tongue. If there were ever a good time for Hell to suck Crowley through the earth, it was now. He made several guttural noises and blurted, “I mean—”

“We’re not actually men. We’re not even human.” Aziraphale glanced around them, painfully conspicuous.

“But we _look_ it. Mostly.”

“That’s – you – that’s beside the point! As if human laws are the biggest concern we’d have if – if we – that is, it’s a complete non-issue.”

Heart in his throat, Crowley opened and closed his mouth several times. “Right. Of course. Non-issue.”

“It’s not like we – that would never –”

“Would never happen,” Crowley quickly agreed, even though it once almost _had_.

“Don’t even say it.” Aziraphale emptied the bread crumbs. “In fact, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Me neither. Ignore me.”

Aziraphale shoved the empty bag at him. “Good day, sir.”

“Sir?”

“I said, good day!” With that, Aziraphale trotted off, head swiveling like a paranoid owl.

“Goddamn idiot,” Crowley muttered, crumpling the bag into a tight ball and hurling it at a particularly pushy mallard. He did the same with each page of the Buggery Act until every duck had left the pond. It didn’t make him feel better.

**1582 AD **

Aziraphale was afraid. Crowley understood that; he was afraid too. They were meant to be sworn enemies after all.

Sex wasn’t a thing angels or demons did – only the ones who got Earthly bodies could even try it out. Even for the demons in the Lust department, sex wasn’t a requirement in the job description, though this was mostly because demons were generally terrible at sex. But for Crowley, who had been on Earth for so long, Lust was always encouraged by his lower-downs. It was the love part that was the problem.

Crowley _should_ want Aziraphale because he was a demon, and he _did_ want Aziraphale because he loved him, but nothing could come of it. God and Satan only knew what the consequences would be. They could lose their positions on Earth and never see each other again. Aziraphale could Fall. They could both be destroyed permanently.

So Crowley gave Aziraphale a wide berth for a few decades, then went and bought him some chocolates.

It was a new thing in Europe, chocolate. And it wasn’t that bitter stuff they had at first, but sweet, delicious morsels that melted in your mouth. It was terribly tempting stuff, and it was exactly the excuse Crowley needed to bug an angel.

Crowley found him in a library, which had become a common refuge for Aziraphale since the invention of the printing press. They’d had an argument back in 1500 about whose side had been responsible for that one. Aziraphale had insisted that it was Heaven, since the press had increased education, literacy, and the distribution of bibles. Crowley had insisted it was Hell, since information and ideas had spread like the plague, leading to people thinking and learning and questioning all sorts of political and religious authorities. In the end, they had both agreed it was likely that neither side had had a hand in it, and quietly reported the invention a success to their respective head offices.

“Happy October 15,” Crowley greeted him, shoving the chocolates into his hands before he could refuse.

Aziraphale juggled his book and the box. “Crowley!”

This had the potential to get awkward fast, so Crowley continued on blithely. “Bit weird, isn’t it? Yesterday was October 4th, today it’s the 15th. It’s been nearly 5600 years, you’d think they’d have figured out how time works by now.”

“I don’t really understand it myself,” Aziraphale admitted, peeking into the box curiously. “But Pope Gregory claims that changing the calendar will ensure Easter is celebrated at the same time every year. Oh, is this chocolate?”

“Yup. Give it a try, you’ll love it.”

Aziraphale scrutinized him. “Is this a gift?”

“’Course not. It’s a temptation. But only a little one.”

“Well.” Aziraphale tucked his book back onto its shelf. “Well, if it’s a temptation, I can’t possibly accept.”

Crowley shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll just go tempt a human instead.” He reached for the box but Aziraphale shied away, tucking it to his chest.

“In that case, perhaps it would be the lesser of two evils if I were to eat them instead.”

“Blast, you’ve foiled my wiles yet again.”

Aziraphale smiled at him with more happiness than his playacting really warranted, and something tense in Crowley’s chest relaxed. Aziraphale had missed him, too.

**1597 AD**

Music and theatre were some of humans’ best creations, in Crowley’s opinion. Most music wasn’t allowed in Hell and the only theatre was the kind where people were tortured for amusement. So Crowley enjoyed a good pub song and even the odd church choir, even if he had to scowl at all the heavenly praises. Crowley was also rather fond of Shakespeare – he liked the crude humour.

The only sense of humour demons were meant to have, though, was the sadistic kind, so when Aziraphale asked him, “Have you heard of that up-and-coming playright, Shakespeare?” Crowley said, “Who?”

Aziraphale was wearing some ridiculous, frilly thing around his neck, and the fabric bounced with his excitement. It was incredibly stupid looking, and yet, to Crowley’s deep chagrin, he still found Aziraphale hopelessly beautiful.

“Oh he’s simply wonderful, very entertaining. He’s premiering a new play tonight, you simply must see it!”

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley said.

The play was called _Romeo and Juliet_, which sounded like a love story to Crowley. He made the obligatory snide comments about love and romance while Aziraphale munched contentedly on grapes, then settled in to enjoy some dirty jokes.

Which was why the prologue caught him so off guard.

_A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;_

_Whose misadventured piteous overthrows_

_Do with their death bury their parents’ strife._

Frowning, Crowley leaned over to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear, “Thought this was s’posed to be funny.”

“Shh,” Aziraphale responded.

By the third act, Crowley was seriously considering walking out, but there were people on all sides and Aziraphale was rapt, watching the stage with obvious enjoyment. Sighing, Crowley focused back on the actors, failing to ignore the obvious parallels between the characters and his and Aziraphale’s situation. That was a thought better left buried deep, deep down.

By the time the play was over, half the audience was weepy-eyed. Aziraphale clapped enthusiastically, face flushed with enjoyment.

“Oh, weren’t they talented, Crowley?” he asked as everyone shuffled out of the theatre. “What did you think of the play?”

Crowley, feeling generous, made a non-committal sound. “I prefer the funny ones.”

“What a good moral it told. What a beautiful love Romeo and Juliet had.”

“’Till their double suicide,” Crowley said flatly.

“Perhaps this tale will serve as a message to everyone who views it, to convince them to overlook their differences for love.”

Crowley stopped dead, not even budging when someone bumped into him from behind.

“Crowley?”

Crowley stared at him, the question on the tip of his tongue, while the crowd parted around them like the sea around Moses.

Aziraphale’s eyes dimmed, his expression sobering. “All the humans who view it, I should say.”

“You misspoke.”

“Indeed, I did.”

Crowley nodded and led the way out of the theatre, Aziraphale trailing several steps behind him.

**1601 AD**

The next time they met at one of Shakespeare’s plays, it was purely for work, but Crowley couldn’t help but notice the way Aziraphale beamed at the sight of him. _Hamlet_, as it turned out, was another tragedy.

“No wonder nobody’s here,” Crowley complained.

Shakespeare himself was a rather perky, if diminutive man, which made Crowley want to shake him by the shoulders and say, ‘there’s enough real tragedy in life – not to mention the afterlife – we don’t need tragedy in theatre too!’

Aziraphale, of course, enjoyed any and all theatre, no matter the theme or topic. It was probably refreshing for him to see emotion, any emotion, expressed so freely, when Heaven generally frowned upon anything more passionate than fervent prayer.

“And what does your friend think?” the actor demanded.

Aziraphale’s reaction was multifaceted and incredibly amusing. His first instinct was to turn to Crowley with a smile, as if to say, ‘Yes, Crowley, my friend, what _do_ you think?’, before he caught himself, his expression sobering.

“He’s not my friend,” he panicked. “We don’t know each other.” Which was such an obvious lie even the humans were giving him odd looks, and Crowley couldn’t help but grin. They really were friends, no matter how Aziraphale denied it, and it was plainly evident to anyone who saw them together. It would be worrying – it was worrying, if any of their coworkers caught sight of them – but it was deeply satisfying as well.

Crowley had never had a friend before.

They had a comfortable routine by now. Crowley offered, Aziraphale resisted. Crowley cajoled, Aziraphale equivocated. Crowley persisted bluntly, Aziraphale at last capitulated. He cheated on the coin toss, not for Aziraphale’s benefit this time – his buttocks simply could not withstand any more horseback riding. He needed a decade break from horses at least.

Then Aziraphale turned his pleading, pouting gaze on him, and Crowley folded like something that folds at the slightest provocation. “Yes, alright,” he sighed, beyond hope, beyond saving. He was a pathetic excuse for a demon, but as far as he knew, he was the only demon with a friend. “I’ll do that one, my treat.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale beamed, as if he didn’t know that Crowley would do anything for him. Anything to put that stupid, beautiful smile on his face.

“Still prefer the funny ones,” he muttered, and sauntered away before he could sell anymore of his damned soul to please the angel.


	11. 1611 AD - 1793 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is struck speechless by a pair of glasses, narrowly avoids a smiting, and saves Aziraphale from getting his head chopped off.

**1611 AD**

“Catch.” Crowley threw a package at him.

Aziraphale yelped, putting down his hot cocoa just in time to grab the parcel as it hit his chest. Deceptively fast reflexes, the angel had. “Would you _quit_ doing that?”

Crowley collapsed into the chair across from him in the cozy inn. “I stole it by mistake,” he lied. “Realized what it was and figured we could have a laugh over it.”

Aziraphale tore off the brown paper wrapping, peering down at the book’s cover. “A bible?”

“Newest version. Read the first page.”

Aziraphale produced a pair of small, round spectacles from somewhere on his person, perching them on his nose as he flipped open the book. As Crowley had hoped, Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he read, but Crowley was too distracted to properly appreciate his reaction.

“That’s not how it happened,” Aziraphale said.

“What the Heaven are those?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale hunched further over the bible. “What?”

“Why are you wearing spectacles?”

“You wear them,” he said distractedly.

“Yes, because I _need_ to.” Well, sort of.

“And because they look cool.”

That shut Crowley up. For a good half hour, Crowley gaped at him while Aziraphale read, muttering and snorting whenever he found an inaccuracy, of which there were many. After the initial shock, the spectacles were admittedly charming, in a grandfatherly sort of way.

“Oh, this is just ridiculous,” Aziraphale exclaimed at last. “I mean, they’ve completely written us both out of the story, not to mention Gabriel wasn’t even _there_ at this point. I suppose the moral is more or less the same, but really, what are their sources?”

“You think my glasses look cool?”

“What was that?”

“_Angel_. Forget the blessed book for a second. You have perfect vision, why are you wearing spectacles?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale pinched the arms of the spectacles and pulled them off his face, fiddling with them. “I suppose I just…like how they look.”

Crowley found he could not produce a witty response to that, as he was too busy making sure his face didn’t let on that his heart was melting.

“And before you accuse me of vanity, I’ll remind you that angels have a certain standard to which we must hold ourselves in regards to our appearance. In addition,” he was getting a bit pink now, “most humans of my apparent age require spectacles, so if I want to blend in—”

“I get it,” Crowley interjected before Aziraphale could work himself into a huff. “And I wasn’t going to accuse you of vanity.” That ship had sailed.

Mollified, Aziraphale tucked the spectacles back on. “Have you read this whole thing? I mean, listen to this bit…”

An hour later, they were both snorting with laughter into their wine, the bible open between them. Once they’d calmed, Crowley leaned back in his seat, feeling philosophical. “You ever wonder if it might be a self-fulfilling prophecy? Everyone expects demons to be Evil to the core, so we act that way?”

“I’m quite certain it’s the other way around, my dear.”

“What came first, the chicken or the egg?”

“What do chickens have to do with it?”

“Nothing,” Crowley sighed, and was silently glad everyone expected him to be Evil, so he hardly ever actually _had_ to be.

**1666 AD**

By the time Crowley got to London, he thought he’d stepped into Hell by mistake.

It seemed that the entire city was engulfed in flames, homeless citizens huddled in the surrounding fields, some crying, some watching, many silent with shock. Crowley ran past them and into the blazing streets.

“Aziraphale?” he bellowed over the inferno’s roar, darting down streets and ducking into crumbling buildings. “Angel! Where are you?”

The air was so thick with smoke it hurt his lungs, and Crowley bent over in a coughing fit before remembering that he didn’t have to breathe. He moved to clearer streets and blinked furiously to clear his watering eyes. He called Aziraphale’s name again and kept calling, gripped by panic, half certain that Aziraphale had already been discorporated or worse.

He was heading for the cathedral when he heard a shout from behind.

“Foreigner! Stop!”

“Eh?”

He didn’t even have time to turn before something struck his head hard. He fell to his knees, dazed, making eye contact with a young boy who stared at him in horror, then scurried away. Ears ringing, his head an explosion of pain, Crowley couldn’t even gather the focus to heal himself.

_Fucking great_. And he hadn’t gotten the chance to warn Aziraphale yet.

“Foreign scum,” he heard the voice growl, and the air whistled with his killing blow.

Then everything flashed white. “In the name of the Lord, cease!”

The air sizzled with holy power and Crowley hissed, curling into the ground, shielding his aching head. Curiosity got the better of him and he peeked up through his fingers to see Aziraphale with his hand on his attacker’s head, holy light pouring out of the human’s eyes, mouth, nose, and ears. An iron bar fell from the human’s hand, his scream silenced by the light which burned through his body until Aziraphale, satisfied, stepped back.

The human crumpled, wracked with sobs, and turned his tear-stained face towards the heavens, pleas tumbling from his lips.

When Aziraphale turned to face Crowley, his eyes still glowed faintly, and Crowley would have swooned if he weren’t already on the ground. Head pounding, vision blurry from the head wound, Crowley squinted up at his avenging angel.

“Didja just smite a human for me?” he slurred.

Aziraphale clucked his tongue and his eyes returned to their usual blue-green. “Not for you.” His fingers fluttered and the pain in his head eased. “There is enough tragedy and destruction here without adding xenophobia to the mess. Besides.” With a hand, Aziraphale pulled Crowley to standing. “It was only a little smiting.”

Orange firelight danced over Aziraphale’s face, his hair smudged black with soot, his eyes blazing through with the clearest blue, and it was all Crowley could do not to kiss him. “No point in me thanking you, then, eh?”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “None at all. What are you doing here? You look a fright – this isn’t your doing is it?”

Crowley shook his head, but when he tried to respond he began coughing again.

“Let’s go, my dear.”

Crowley followed him without question or protest, the inferno closing in around them. Occasionally, they would come across a group of people fleeing a burning home, and Aziraphale would stop to ensure miraculous escapes.

“How did it get so bad?” Crowley asked, as another building collapsed in flames.

“It’s been terribly dry this year and the winds are so strong they spread embers across the city. A perfectly terrible combination of factors.”

That reminded him. “Angel, I’ve gotta—”

He was cut off by screams and Aziraphale immediately set towards them. “Oh, dear, not again.”

A fight had broken out – well, more of a beating than a fight. A small crowd surrounded a man, whose wife and children cried and begged them to stop, while they bludgeoned him with whatever they could find.

“Cease this at once!” Aziraphale ordered, throwing his arms out, and the crowd immediately stumbled away from their victim.

Crowley lingered back while Aziraphale healed the poor man and bid the family to run. The crowd watched on with hate and fear on their faces, while Aziraphale surveyed them with a frown.

“What benefit do you gain by turning on your neighbours?” he demanded. “The people you have lived amongst for years.”

“They’re not English – they don’t belong here!” one human cried.

“It’s the Catholics!”

“It’s an invasion!”

“They’ve taken everything from us!”

“There is no proof that this is deliberate,” Aziraphale argued hopelessly. Fear and paranoia had turned the people of London into a vicious mob that could not be reasoned with. “Peace be with you,” Aziraphale murmured instead.

As a group, the people hesitated, as though experiencing some internal tug-of-war. Then, rather than dispersing, they began advancing on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale frowned. “Peace be with you,” he repeated, more forcefully, putting more power behind it. Again, the people shuddered, but continued towards him.

Crowley squinted at them in alarm. Was that a maggot on that human’s shoulder?

“Shit.” Crowley sniffed the air, detecting the scent of brimstone, and whirled around until he found a pair of beady eyes over his shoulder. Not good.

“Crawly,” Hastur growled.

“Crowley,” Crowley corrected. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You knew I was coming.”

“Never could resist a good human tragedy.”

“Just my luck I found wank-wings here.”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, who was backing away from the mob, hands raised in front of him. The fire spitting at the angel’s back looked worryingly Hellish. “Yeah, about that. Remember what Beelzebub said about leaving angels alone? Do you want to start a war prematurely?”

Hastur snorted. “No one will even know.”

“Oh, come on. They’ll catch a whiff of sulfur on him and put two and two together.”

Hastur peered at him. “What’s math got to do with it?”

“They’ll figure it out!”

Hastur shrugged, unconcerned. “They can’t start a war yet. It is not Written.”

Crowley’s heart clenched, his breath short. Aziraphale grimaced as Hellfire licked at his back and still the humans advanced. “He’s too important,” he blurted. “To Heaven, I mean.”

Hastur hesitated and the mob did, too. “This angel? Important? Heaven wouldn’t bother fighting over _him_.”

Crowley grit his teeth, because Hastur was right, damn him a second time. Of all the angels Crowley had had the misfortune to meet, Aziraphale was the only one worthy of the title, yet Heaven didn’t give a single fuck about him. It would probably take a century before Heaven even noticed Aziraphale was missing.

But Hastur didn’t know that.

“They would, they would. I’ve been working against him since the beginning – they love him up there. Last time I tried to discorporate him Gabriel nearly smote me.”

At the mention of the archangel’s name, Hastur scowled. Seeing his chance, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the humans all froze, their faces going blank. Frowning thunderously, Aziraphale’s wings burst into existence and he raised his hands, his palms glowing.

“Shit,” Crowley hissed, and ran for it.

“Begone, foul fiends!”

Crowley yelped when the angelic power hit his back, falling to the ground yet again to the sound of Hastur’s screams. Sprawled on the ash-covered street, Crowley twisted to find Hastur’s human body burning away as the demon was discorporated, his possession of the humans disappearing like so much smoke. Holy light burned the back of Crowley’s neck and he groaned, crawling a few feet before the power faded away.

“Crowley, dear, are you alright?”

Flopping onto his back, Crowley stared up at the fire-filled sky, Aziraphale’s concerned face peering down at him. “Just fine, angel.”

“You appear to be spending an awful lot of time on the ground lately,” Aziraphale observed.

Crowley made a face at him and stood. “I’m just glad you spared me from discorporation.”

Aziraphale shifted guiltily. “Well, certainly I wasn’t _trying_ to discorporate you, but I was rather overwhelmed with everything and I just wanted to get rid of everything Evil in the vicinity. I suppose you were far enough away…”

Hastur had not been much closer than Crowley, yet he had discorporated instantly. “S’pose so.”

The winds died down and the fires at last subsided the next day, leaving behind thousands without homes, belongings, and, in some cases, loved ones. The suspicions and anger of the people simmered still, and Crowley attracted distrustful looks in his French attire.

“It wasn’t my lot,” Crowley insisted while Aziraphale miracled up some blankets for a group of shivering children. “Hastur just wanted to enjoy the show.”

“It wasn’t mine either, far as I can tell.” Aziraphale brushed his knees when he stood, his clothes dirty beyond saving. He must hate that. His hair still appeared grey with soot and Crowley ached to brush it clean. “I almost wish one of our sides _had_ done it. It would give the humans something to blame other than each other.”

“It was an accident.”

“They don’t see it that way. Tragedy like this –” he waved a hand out, encompassing the smoldering town, the people squatting in tents and under blankets, “it’s too terrible for them to comprehend as random.”

Crowley gazed up at the stars. “Don’t really blame ‘em.”

**1709 AD **

It was, according to the newspapers, the coldest winter in the memory of man. It wasn’t the coldest winter in the memory of a certain angel and demon, but it was certainly still cold, and Crowley was very much over it. No matter that he had changed his name, he was still a snake at heart, and snakes did not like the cold.

He shuffled through the snow, bundled in his fur jacket, only his sunglasses peeking out from under his hood. Feet numb, he stomped up the steps to a quaint little flat and slammed on the door.

“Angel, let me in!”

He stood shivering on the doorstep for several moments before the door was opened and Aziraphale peeked out. “Goodness, Crowley, such a racket.”

“It’s c-c-cold.”

“Come in, come in.”

Crowley shuffled into the warm entranceway with a sigh of relief, his breath fogging the air. He kicked off his sodden boots and curled his frozen toes, gratefully accepting the cup of hot cocoa Aziraphale placed into his stiff hands.

Feeling grateful made him feel uncomfortable, which made him want to annoy Aziraphale, so he said, “You know d-d-doctors are claiming this stuff has aphrodisiac properties?”

“Indeed?” Aziraphale led the way into his sitting room and peered at his own hot cocoa curiously. “I’ve never noticed anything like that.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and burrowed into a chair across from him. “That something you would notice?”

“Well, of course. I’ve had this body for millennia; do you really think I haven’t masturbated in it before?”

Crowley, who had dared to take a sip of the overly sweet drink, choked. “Ngk – what?” That was not a word he had ever expected to come out of Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Haven’t you?”

Crowley had, of course, but not on purpose. Only when he thought about – ah, that was dangerous territory. He made a few unintelligible noises before managing, “Why?” and then second-guessed if he actually wanted to know.

“It’s like food, I suppose,” Aziraphale mused, leaning back in his chair and gazing at his hot cocoa. “I indulge in it because I like it, because it helps me feel more human, because it makes this body feel more like mine. Have you ever felt out of place in your own skin?”

Crowley shook his head without really understanding why. He _had_ felt out of place in his corporation, especially for the first millennium or so. It was comforting to know he wasn’t the only one, and yet he did not want to risk vulnerability by extending that same comfort to Aziraphale. He was a demon after all, he thought glumly.

“Well.” Aziraphale shrugged. “It helps.”

“But isn’t onanism, y’know, Bad?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Even if it were, it wouldn’t apply to me. I will never understand where the rumours of blindness and hairy palms came from.”

A somewhat awkward silence fell. Crowley glared at his hot cocoa until it became something with a much higher alcohol content. There was a very obvious, unspoken thing in the room, like a sort of large animal. A giraffe, at least. All he could think of was that night in 1208, cloying hashish smoke in the air, the angel doubting heaven and ready to self-destruct.

Crowley didn’t want to know, but he _did_. “You’ve never…tried it…with anyone?” _Other than me._

He’d asked this before, back on Noah’s crowded boat, floodwaters crashing around them. That had been a long time ago.

“Good gracious, no,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt unaccountable relief. What did it matter to him what Aziraphale did with his corporation? What did it matter what he did with humans who didn’t really know anything about the angel? It shouldn’t matter and yet somehow it did, that they had this one thing in common.

But Crowley couldn’t be satisfied with that. He took a long drink of his very alcoholic not-hot-cocoa. His insatiable curiosity wriggled free with the single word: “Why?”

Aziraphale’s fingers tapped on his mug. Crowley didn’t really expect him to answer, but the room was warm and warmly lit, and the intimate atmosphere begged for divulgences. With a storm blowing outside and a fire crackling peacefully in the grate, it was easy to pretend they were nothing but old friends. “I suppose I’ve never seen much point. Human lives are so short, after all, and there’s always the risk of…an emotional attachment. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

_My life won’t be short_, Crowley thought wildly. _And no risk of a demon forming an emotional attachment, ha-ha._

He had a vivid memory of angels shackled in Hell, the sickening scent of burnt feathers. That had been the punishment for angels who dared lay with humans, back in the beginning. Had that changed? Would that be Aziraphale’s fate if he decided he really wanted to _fit in_ with the humans?

“Probably for the best,” Crowley croaked, and moved the conversation to safer topics.

Ostensibly, he was here to discuss a recent temptation Aziraphale had done for him, but they ended up talking late into the night, both of them swapping from cocoa to wine at some point. Between the fire, the warm furs under which he still huddled, and Aziraphale’s familiar scent all around him, Crowley was terribly comfortable. He didn’t realize how comfortable until it was too late and he was asleep, dreaming of Aziraphale stroking a hand through his hair.

“Oh, to be human, only for a night,” the dream-angel sighed. “To forget about… Well. No use in pondering the impossible.”

Life went on. During the 1730s, Aziraphale spent most of his time jumping between Britain and its colonies across the ocean, encouraging a religious frenzy that left a bad taste in Crowley’s mouth. Crowley would have helped him if Aziraphale were less smug about the whole thing.

Crowley got back at Aziraphale by encouraging the formation of the Illuminati, which he gloated about over lunch with the angel in Bavaria in 1778.

“They’re not even that bad, really,” Crowley relented, watching Aziraphale enjoy a dish of custard. “They’re a bit of a paranoid bunch, but they’re all about enlightenment and rational thinking. Oh, and they’re against the power of royalty and the church over the public.”

“They sound delightful.” Before Aziraphale, Crowley hadn’t known angels could be sarcastic.

“Can you blame them for wanting the truth? For wanting knowledge?”

Aziraphale licked custard from his spoon. “I really couldn’t comment.”

“You could.” Crowley pointed a fork at him. “But you choose not to.”

They attended _The Marriage of Figaro_ together in 1786, for no reason other than that they were both in Vienna and it had received good reviews. It was then that Crowley realized they were socializing rather a lot for Enemies.

“I’m thinking of opening a book shop,” Aziraphale told him as they took their seats.

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’ve collected a rather large number of books,” he admitted, only a little abashed.

“Decided to sell some of them, have you?”

“Goodness, no!” He looked horrified by the very notion. “Not unless I absolutely have to.”

Crowley peered at him. “You do realize what book shops are for, don’t you?”

“It’ll be the perfect excuse to have so many books. And it won’t look odd at all if I happen to procure more.”

Crowley grinned as the curtain was raised. “Flawless plan.”

“Isn’t it just?”

**1793 AD**

Then Aziraphale went and got himself captured in Paris during the Revolution.

“What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille?”

Crowley really had been in the area – political upheavals were great places for demons – when that angel-shaped awareness in the back of his head had flared. It was incredibly gratifying to see Aziraphale’s face light up at the sight of him – even more gratifying to see the unsubtle raking of his eyes up and down Crowley’s exorbitant outfit. He was feeling especially stylish this decade.

“Well, if you must know, it was the crepes,” Aziraphale admitted, and Satan, did Crowley love this idiot, with his frilly sleeves and lacey scarf. He didn’t mind the look of him in manacles either.

“Why didn’t you just perform another miracle and go home?”

“I was reprimanded last month.”

Which was just depressing in Crowley’s opinion. Ensuring the well-being of Aziraphale’s corporation wasn’t a ‘frivolous miracle’, surely? Removing a wine stain from the carpet and stopping your head getting cut off seemed like two very different miracles. But then he remembered Gabriel and Uriel reaming out a stabbed Aziraphale back in 1099 and wasn’t so sure.

Then, another terrible thought: this was Aziraphale’s second reprimand. How many more chances would he get?

He snapped his fingers and Aziraphale was free.

It was only when Aziraphale invited him to lunch, using up a miracle to change his clothes, that Crowley wondered if it all hadn’t been an elaborate ruse to see him. They could never simply ask the other out for a meal, after all, and Crowley was smiling like a fool as they walked out of the prison.

The crepes were delicious, or so Aziraphale told him. Crowley was only there for the company, basking in Aziraphale’s little hums of pleasure as he munched on buttery, sugary pastry. Aziraphale managed to tempt him into trying a nibble, holding out his fork in the air between them.

He intended for Crowley to take the fork, but, feeling bold, Crowley raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, wrapping his lips around the sweet morsel while Aziraphale watched him with wide eyes. Crowley leaned back, chewing quickly before swallowing, noting the way Aziraphale’s eyes darted to his throat.

The restaurant felt several degrees hotter.

It was a stupid thing to do, but he didn’t regret it. Not with the shy way Aziraphale glanced down and back up, cutting into his crepe and placing the fork into his own mouth again, watching Crowley all the while. He looked good in red and he’d kept that frilly scarf, and Crowley had to distract himself or his corporation would get away from him.

It was when Aziraphale was at odds with Heaven that he allowed these flirtations. Was that a coincidence? He didn’t want Aziraphale risking a third transgression to find out.


	12. 1800 AD - 1842 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley saves Aziraphale from an early retirement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been a minute, hasn't it? It took a literal quarantine to get time for writing. I hope you're all staying healthy and happy out there and I hope this new chapter helps a bit! The dialogue from the first couple sections are from a deleted scene.

**1800 AD**

Crowley was whistling as he strolled down the street, box of expensive assorted chocolates in hand. Years of searching for the perfect building and location for his book shop and at last Aziraphale had found a place that fit his standards. The grand opening was in a couple days, but Crowley wanted to get a look at the place before humans made a mess of it. Plus, tempting the angel with foodstuff was becoming a favourite pastime.

His gait slowed as he approached the corner shop, where a young man on a ladder was completing the finishing touches on the sign. He pondered what the _A.Z. _could stand for, then came to a standstill when his nostrils tingled unpleasantly. The front door was open.

“Use my bookshop?” Aziraphale was saying from inside, sounding profoundly insulted.

Then Gabriel’s voice, with false cheer, “You’re being promoted. You get to come home.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend five minutes longer in this world than they had to,” came a second voice, dripping with derision. It was that angel who enjoyed turning people into salt.

Stomach in knots, Crowley inched towards the open door.

“Aziraphale has been here for almost 6000 years,” Gabriel continued. “We must applaud such devotion to duty.” From behind the archangels, Crowley watched Gabriel present Aziraphale with a box.

“I don’t want a medal,” Aziraphale protested, clasping white-knuckled hands in front of himself.

“That’s very noble of you.” Gabriel nudged the medal closer.

At a loss, Aziraphale looked away from the medal and, by chance, at the demon lurking outside his shop. Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. Crowley flashed a cheeky grin and waved.

“But only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley,” Aziraphale said quickly, eyes bouncing between Gabriel and Crowley.

Crowley ought to leave before his cover was blown, but he couldn’t allow Aziraphale to be spirited away to heaven. If the archangels really wanted to reward him, it wouldn’t be with a medal. Crowley lifted the box in his hand and mouthed ‘chocolates’.

“I do not doubt that whoever replaces you will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are.” Gabriel paused. “Michael, perhaps.”

Crowley’s smile inverted. ‘Michael’s a wanker!’ he mouthed at an increasingly flustered Aziraphale.

“Crowley’s been down here just as long as I have,” Aziraphale argued, voice strained. “And he’s wily, and cunning, and brilliant…”

“Almost sounds like you like him,” Gabriel said, not suspicious, only baffled, confident that he was misinterpreting Aziraphale’s meaning.

_He does, you idiot!_ Crowley wanted to shout. _He likes me a helluva lot more than you!_

Aziraphale went pale and swallowed hard. “I loathe him.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. All these years and still Aziraphale couldn’t act to save his life – or career for that matter.

“And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent.” Aziraphale grimaced and backtracked again. “Which he isn’t because he’s a demon and I cannot respect a demon. Or like one.”

Biting his tongue to keep from smiling, Crowley ducked out of the doorway. He could still remember, back when he’d been trying to persuade Aziraphale into the Arrangement, when the angel would agonize over the sinfulness of lying. Now look at him, lying to his superiors because he wanted to stay on Earth.

Well, Crowley could fix this.

Crowley beat the archangels to Gabriel’s tailor on Cork Street. Bunch of self-important, over-dressed hypocrites, were archangels.

It was with pure, demonic glee that Crowley broke into the tailor’s back room and pilfered one of his mannequins. With a snap of the fingers he produced an appropriately demonic black robe, which he flung over the mannequin like a matador’s cape.

Inside the tailor’s came Gabriel’s voice.

Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, Crowley waited until he was certain Gabriel could hear him, then settled into a skulking, devilish stance. Today, he was playing the role of the Demon Crowley (the Adversary, Tempter of Original Sin, Great Serpent of Eden, and Troublemaker of Humanity). He was also, because he’d taken an acting class once, starring as the Monstrous Creature from the Bowels of Hell.

_Enter Demon_, he thought.

“Are you certain that we are unobserved,” he asked the mannequin, “oh monstrous creature from the bowels of Hell?” Then, making his voice growling and terrible, he answered himself, “No one is listening, oh demon Crowley.”

That ought to pique Gabriel’s interest.

“Curses. If only I could understand why my evil plans are always so brilliantly thwarted. It’s as if the forces of Heaven have a champion here on Earth who thwarts me…” he scrambled for a good adverb. How did Aziraphale thwart him? Accidentally? Pettily? Smugly, when Crowley made one too many digs at the expense of Heaven? “Thwartingly.”

He switched to the monster voice. “Why, Mister Crowley, you must not be downcast. I hear news that will bring joy to you and all the powers of Hell. They do say as how the angel Aziraphale, your nemesis, is being sent back to Heaven.”

He wished Aziraphale were here to see this; this was what real acting looked like.

He switched to his own voice. “Can this be true? I was going to swallow holy water in my despair at once more being beaten by the angel Aziraphale.” Subtlety would be lost on Gabriel. “But such excellent news! Only Aziraphale knows my ways well enough to…”

He blanked for a second. Switching voices, he blurted, “Thwart them?” Smooth, real smooth.

“Exactly. Now let us repair to an evil drinking den, and drink to the success of evil on this Earth, thanks to Heaven’s foolishness.”

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and burst into an uproariously Evil Laugh. From inside the tailor’s there came a loud thump. Exactly the kind of thump an archangel would make if they fell off a stool while eavesdropping. Grinning, Crowley snapped his fingers, returning the mannequin to its rightful place, then shoved his hands in his pockets.

As he strolled out of the alleyway, he was whistling.

“It was the oddest thing,” Aziraphale told him around a bite of chocolate. They were in the new shop, which already had that musty old book smell.

“Yeah?” Crowley leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea with the satisfaction of a job well done.

“They came back and had completely changed their minds. That wouldn’t have something to do with you, would it?”

Crowley flashed a shit-eating grin. “Who, me? Wily, cunning, oh what was it you said…brilliant, me?”

Aziraphale coughed delicately and tried to look busy hunting for another chocolate. “I was trying to be convincing…”

Crowley plucked the medal from where it lay discarded on the table between them. It was a simple gold circle with the words _Congratulations Aziraphale_ engraved in looping cursive. “Seems a bit offensive really.”

“Hm?”

“I mean, if it were really important, why just leave it with you? Why not save it for when you really retire?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Perhaps this means I’ll be posted to Earth indefinitely. Well, until Armageddon, at any rate.”

“That’s ages away.”

“I imagine with all the hullaballoo when that happens there won’t be time to welcome me back properly.”

“Hullaballoo?”

“Not that I want a medal anyway.” He closed his eyes, savouring a salted-caramel morsel. “Sometimes I think that if they just spent more than five minutes at a time on Earth they’d realize what an incredible place it can be.”

“Nah. Earth would be lost on them.” Crowley gazed around the room at the books, the paintings, the knick-knacks, all the things that Aziraphale had collected over the years. Crowley recognized many of them. It was cluttered and disorganized, but in a homey, cozy kind of way. The angle of Crowley’s seat was perfect for catching late afternoon sunlight; it would be an ideal napping spot. “Not enough human in them.”

“In any case, I’m terribly glad. It would have been awfully rude to leave without saying goodbye.”

“Awfully rude.” Crowley leaned over to steal a chocolate so he wouldn’t have to look at Aziraphale when he said, “Not to mention how bored you’d be Up There. Without your books and tea and-and—” _Me_. He couldn’t say it. He bit half the chocolate and put the other half back in the box for Aziraphale to try.

“I’ve grown rather fond of Earth,” Aziraphale allowed, grimacing at the mutilated sweet. “And, perhaps it’s prideful to say, but I do believe no other angel could thwart your wiles quite like I do.”

Crowley chewed and studied him from behind his sunglasses. His face was carefully neutral, but his eyes were so soft it made Crowley want to squirm. He swallowed the sugary bite. “Yeah. Take you over Michael any day.”

Aziraphale smiled with honest pleasure and Crowley had to remind himself how to breathe.

The curse of having an imagination, was that Crowley was prone to over-thinking things. Having saved Aziraphale from an early retirement had him thinking of what it would be like if he had failed. What if Aziraphale really had gone back to Heaven? Demons weren’t supposed to feel loneliness, but the thought of doling out wiles on Earth without Aziraphale there to thwart them made Crowley think he could understand why humans hated it so much.

Then, thinking of Aziraphale gone got Crowley thinking of Aziraphale _dead_, and while his brain recoiled, he quickly realized that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to stop that happening. In fact, he could not imagine a single thing worse, and that was saying something.

He always reassured Aziraphale that no one would ever find out about their Arrangement, but what if somebody did? Unlike Heaven, Hell didn’t give out written warnings. If his superiors found out he had gotten too friendly with an angel, that was him done, permanently. He needed a way to protect himself and Aziraphale, if it came to it.

**1804 AD**

The 19th century had barely begun, but Crowley was finding it exhausting already. Aziraphale was thriving, rejoicing in his books and fancy snuffboxes and symphonies and theatres. He was dressed for the appropriate time period, for once, and happily chatted about humans’ newest inventions and discoveries like a proud parent. As the decades wore on, Aziraphale seemed to settle into his own skin, while Crowley felt increasingly on edge.

As a demon, Crowley didn’t have the benefit of ignoring the Evils of the world. Where Aziraphale saw a beautiful new scarf, Crowley saw the child working twelve hours a day in a textile factory. During their visits to museums, Aziraphale ogled the impressive collections of artefacts and antiquities, while Crowley pointed out that most of the items on display had been stolen from other cultures. While Aziraphale marveled at the rapid growth and development of London, Crowley couldn’t help but fixate on the overcrowded, poverty-stricken slums. Crowley admired his enthusiasm, his lust for life, but he didn’t share it.

“Newton was driving me simply mad,” Aziraphale exclaimed, proudly presenting Crowley with his newest acquisition – some sort of sciency-looking book. “With his insistence on light being particles. So, I simply gave Thomas a little…inspiration.”

Flipping open the book, Crowley’s eyes glazed over at the blocks of text and math equations. He’d accuse Aziraphale of cheating, except he had told Leo about the helicopter thing.

“That’s opening a can of snakes, don’t you think? What about when they find out it’s not just waves either?”

“Worms.”

“Eh?”

“It’s a can of worms, not snakes.”

“Really? A can of snakes seems so much more dire though.”

“The Almighty had a good laugh over photons if I remember correctly.”

“I prefer the dinosaur joke,” Crowley mumbled, handing back the book. It was all very impressive, but he didn’t really see how it would change anything.

“It’s really very clever how they’re figuring it all out with numbers, don’t you think? How far they’ve come!” Aziraphale disappeared in his shelves, on the hunt for a home for his new prize.

Crowley slouched on the couch and closed his eyes. “Inefficient if you ask me, using numbers to solve the universe. We didn’t use any numbers when we made it.”

“Well, it’s not like they have another choice,” Aziraphale’s voice drifted out. “They can’t See like we can.”

“Wasn’t an apple for that. Maybe I would have chosen that one instead. No knowledge of Good and Evil, but able to See.”

“It would drive me mad, I think,” Aziraphale said, returning to the back room, “to See but unable to interact with it.”

Power rippled through the air and Crowley flinched under the sudden weight of a blanket. He opened his eyes to see Aziraphale smiling down at him and a tartan throw covering him. “Er.”

“Take a nap, my dear. You’ve been unaccountably grumpy lately.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open. “Grumpy! I am a _demon_, I am not _grumpy_.”

Aziraphale patted his foot and wandered out of the room. “Of course, dear.”

Crowley skulked around London’s East End for a few years, sent a couple memos back to Hell about the brothels, the crime, the debauchery and sin, then moved to a flat within walking distance of Soho. If he just happened to live somewhere close to an angel, well, all the better to spy on the movements of the Opposition.

**1824 AD**

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Crowley announced, walking into the book shop. “Which do you want first?”

“The door was locked,” Aziraphale pointed out, hunched over at his desk. He wore his spectacles and a pair of white gloves, and was doing something surgical-looking to the peeling spine of a book.

“Didn’t notice. What have you got there?” He wandered closer, and then regretted it when Aziraphale launched into a lengthy monologue about the book, its contents, its author, its origins, its history, its worth, _ad nauseum_. Crowley tuned him out and focused on what his hands were doing, mesmerized by the delicate way he manipulated the pages, his deft handling of the tools, his careful touch that was slowly but surely bringing the book back to life.

“But enough about me. You had news, didn’t you?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale was sliding his thumb along the book’s freshly glued spine.

“I’ll take the good news, please.”

Crowley blinked. “Right. Erm.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a moment, then whipped out a pair of crisply folded tickets. “Good news: we’re going to the premiere of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Oh, how delightful! That is wonderful news, indeed.”

Crowley took a moment to bask under Aziraphale’s elation. “Wasn’t easy to get tickets, I’ll tell you that much.”

The angel pursed his lips disapprovingly, but wisely did not ask. “And the bad news?”

Crowley braced himself. “I’ve gotta tempt him.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? Ol’ Ludwig himself.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Oh, Crowley, _no_.”

The symphony was incredible, the audience’s reaction even more so. It was impossible not to be swept up in the crowd’s ecstasy as the final note sang out, listeners jumping to their feet with thunderous applause. Beethoven could hear none of it, one of the musicians taking him by the shoulders and turning him so he could see the standing ovation he was receiving.

There were tears in Aziraphale’s eyes. “His greatest yet, I should say. What a supreme achievement.”

Crowley clapped along with the humans. “Talent like that, imagine what he could do if he could still hear. Isn’t he worth a miracle?”

“Perhaps he has produced such music _because_ he can’t hear it.”

Crowley made a face. “Pretty sure he’d prefer to hear.”

“Oh, you don’t really mean to tempt him, do you? I would hate for you to ruin his night.”

The applause was still a cacophony, the musicians bowing. “How are you going to thwart me?”

Aziraphale looked at him sharply. “I could get to him first. I’ve always wanted to meet the man.”

“Have you now?”

“Of course, you can’t return to Hell empty-handed,” Aziraphale mused, clapping absently. A woman beside him threw her handkerchief towards the stage.

Crowley smiled his smug smile that made the hairs rise on the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “Oh, I won’t.”

It took them nearly an hour to leave the theatre. Half of the doors were, inexplicably, jammed shut, forcing the patrons to bottleneck at the available exits. There was a terrible mix up at the coat check that took ages to figure out, and all but one of the toilets were out of order. There weren’t nearly enough cabs for everyone, a worker tripped and smashed a crate of wine in the entrance, and a miserable downpour had started up outside.

“Oh, I should have let you tempt him,” Aziraphale grumbled, while two women fought over the cab Aziraphale had been about to claim.

Crowley beamed. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You fiend.” It sounded like an endearment to Crowley’s endlessly hopeful ears.

**1842 AD**

One thing Crowley had learned during his 5800 odd years on Earth was that most humans were boring. Individually, that was. Get them in a group, however, and then things got interesting. That’s what he loved about cities, really: the high population density. You could ruin one person’s day and then that person would go on to ruin ten other peoples’ day. Crowley had witnessed the meekest individuals become absolute demons when bolstered by a crowd and self-righteousness. He had seen people say things they didn’t mean, do things they didn’t agree with, and fight wars they didn’t believe in, all because they thought others wanted them to.

What humans wanted was to belong. But they also wanted to be special.

Which was what made the gentlemen’s club so popular in England. This was also why the greeter at Crowley’s regular club held up a hand when Aziraphale tried to follow Crowley in.

“And who is this gentleman?”

Crowley gave a charming smile. “He’s with me.”

Aziraphale fidgeted beside him. “Oh, I don’t know that I would say I’m ‘with you’,” he fretted. “We hardly know each other after all. Acquaintances at best.”

Crowley’s smile struggled to maintain its charisma. He nudged Aziraphale’s ribs with his elbow in a way that clearly meant _do you want to get in or not? _“I can vouch for him.”

“Mr. Crowley, if he isn’t a member we simply cannot—”

Crowley draped himself over the human’s desk and slipped a bill into his hand. “Just this once, hm?”

The human glanced down at the bill, his eyebrows raising. “Very good, sir.” He turned a painfully polite smile on Aziraphale. “Welcome, mister…?”

“Fell. You will donate that, won’t you?” Aziraphale smiled equally politely. “Perhaps to that orphanage down the street.”

Eyes hazy, the human nodded eagerly. Crowley groaned. “Ugh. C’mon, angel.”

Crowley could practically smell Aziraphale’s smugness as they made their way into the main room, where men gossiped and drank and smoke. The chatter was accompanied by quiet thuds and clunks as darts found their home in corked targets and billiard balls collided. Crowley liked coming here for the little sins – the gambling, the cheating, the gluttony and jealousy. The alcohol selection was a nice perk, too.

“You’re certain he’ll be here?” Aziraphale murmured, looking around the room.

“It’s Wednesday. He’s always here this time on Wednesdays.”

“I’ve never been in a club, you know. This is quite nice.”

“It’s not _nice_,” he said automatically. “Why don’t you join a club, then?”

“Oh, I’m on a waiting list. They’re very picky about who they let in. It’s all quite elite.”

Crowley, who strongly believed that waiting lists were things that happened to other people, stared. “You’re an angel. Doesn’t get more elite than that.”

“Well, I’m not about to skip the queue – the wait is only eight years, after all.”

“_Eight years_?” Crowley squawked.

“I’m not in a rush.”

Crowley shook his head. There was no way he was going to let Aziraphale wait that long – it was the principle of the thing. He made a mental note to deal with that after they’d finished the job. “Grab a seat at the bar. I’ll just be over there.”

Crowley slipped into a booth while Aziraphale stationed himself at the bar. Within five minutes Crowley had a tumbler of scotch in hand and had spotted their mark. He blew a suggestion into the air and, across the room, two men’s conversation juddered to an unnatural stop, both of their attention inexplicably drawn elsewhere. Taking a sip of his drink, Crowley watched the human drift towards the bar as if compelled. When he took a seat next to Aziraphale, the angel smiled warmly and introduced himself.

It was a simple temptation, something Crowley could easily have done himself. But this human was an up-and-coming writer, which was Aziraphale’s specialty. They were doing each other a favour, really; Aziraphale got to chat with a minor celebrity and Crowley got to watch Aziraphale work.

And work Aziraphale did. By the time the human had received his drink, the two were deep in conversation, the man blossoming under Aziraphale’s attention. It was impressively natural, the way Aziraphale slipped the temptation into their discussion. Crowley saw the human shiver with it and then, as if a switch had been flipped, he placed a hand on Aziraphale’s arm.

Crowley snickered into his glass. Any moment now, the writer was going to invite Aziraphale back to his place to look over the manuscript he was working on, and Aziraphale, the kind-hearted, gullible creature that he was, would say yes. It would be hilarious, but that wasn’t the type of temptation the angel had signed up for.

With a sigh, Crowley stood and ambled over to the chattering couple.

“Would you like another drink, angel?” Crowley brushed his knuckles over Aziraphale’s back subtly, but not so subtly that the writer didn’t notice.

Aziraphale twitched in surprise but Crowley kept his eyes trained on the human, whose expression flickered between nonplussed and defiant before falling with disappointment. “You neglected to tell me you didn’t come alone, Mr. Fell.”

“I, ah—”

Crowley smiled with too many teeth. “He didn’t.”

Paling, the human stood.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale muttered. “It was absolutely lovely to meet you, my good man.”

With a jerky nod, the human made a swift escape. Crowley slipped into his vacated seat and knocked back the rest of his drink.

“If you wanted to talk to him, all you had to do was ask,” Aziraphale grumbled, raising a finger for another round.

“Don’t be sour, I was just trying to save you from an embarrassing misunderstanding. You did see where that conversation was going, didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have minded. Not to have sex with him, of course, but I would have liked to have read his manuscript.”

“Ah, so you’re not as oblivious as I thought.”

Aziraphale made a sour face at him. “I am not _oblivious_. It’s not the first time I’ve received attention of that kind. Not due to any effort on my part, I’ll have you know.”

“You give off a very gay vibe.”

“A ‘gay vibe’?” he repeated, incredulous.

“You know! With all the…” he straightened his spine and wriggled his shoulders, “and the…” he waved a hand at the frilly detailing on Aziraphale’s shirt, “and just…” he swept a hand to encompass all of Aziraphale.

“While I am quite certain I have no idea what you meant by that pantomime, I’m sure you, of all people, realize that how you present yourself and sexuality are two entirely different—”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You’re an angel; you don’t have a sexuality.”

“Well, it’s hardly my fault that a gentle disposition and an appreciation for good tailoring has been linked to certain sexual inclinations. Humans get the funniest ideas.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, because clearly Aziraphale did know what he meant by his pantomime. “So, it’s all a coincidence, then? You just accidentally set off everyone’s gaydar?”

“Gaydar? Really, the things you come up with. I’ll have you know that I put a lot of thought and consideration into my corporation.”

“Vanity, angel?”

“Of course not, that’s more your area, dear.”

Crowley chuckled and let it drop; he had gotten his fun teasing. But then Aziraphale said, “I suppose I can’t help but sympathize with them.”

“Eh?”

“I suppose ‘inverts’ is the term being used now. Rejected by their peers, forced to hide their true selves for their safety.”

Crowley stilled. He was pretty sure there was a deeper meaning to Aziraphale’s words. “Angel, what are you getting at?”

Aziraphale’s face fell before his expression went flat. “Nothing. Nothing a demon would understand. Not your fault of course, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

A stiff silence fell. Bristling, Crowley seriously considered walking out, but he couldn’t get over the sense that he was missing something important. “Good thing you don’t have a corporation like Gabriel, really.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh?”

“I never would have introduced myself in Eden if you had.”

The tenseness eased out of Aziraphale’s shoulders. “We might never have met.”

Their eyes met over Crowley’s sunglasses. “And then where would you be?”

“Indeed. Where would I be?”

“Fine, probably.” Which was such a lie that it came out the other side. It didn’t really count, Crowley reckoned, if they both knew it was a lie. “Up in the clouds playing the harp with Michael.”

“Angels don’t play the harp.”

“Even if they did, Michael would be terrible at it.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched with poorly suppressed mirth and Crowley felt an unseemly amount of glee.

“Oh, hush, you.”


	13. 1858 AD - 1941 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale convinces Crowley to go to a Turkish Bath with him and Crowley sleeps for fifty years.

**1858 AD**

London had a problem. A shitty problem, quite literally.

“Do you think Pestilence will come back again?” Aziraphale worried, holding a lacey handkerchief over his nose.

They were lounging in Aziraphale’s back room – well, Crowley was lounging while Aziraphale sat as though having tea with the queen. It was one of the hottest summers in years, which appealed to Crowley’s reptilian nature, but his basking was rather dampened by the horrific stench that permeated the London air.

“No one's said anything to me,” he said, and stripped out of his suit jacket. Everyone’s insistence on wearing so many layers when the weather was like this was masochistic as far as Crowley was concerned. Humans were brilliant at torturing themselves; he’d been trying to tell Hell for years. “Why don’t you miracle the smell away?”

“No frivolous miracles, remember?” Aziraphale muttered, voice muffled by the handkerchief.

The city’s population boom had resulted in a proportional increase in human waste. London had become a malodorous cesspool – Crowley felt unpleasantly at home.

With a grunt, Crowley snapped his fingers and the book shop air cleared, exuding a hint of lavender that Aziraphale inhaled gratefully. “Oh, thank you, dear.”

“Shut up,” Crowley mumbled, and loosened his cravat. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, feeling sluggish in the heat.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I’ve been planting seeds with some key people for a few years now.”

“Seeds?”

“For a new sewage system. It should help with the cholera outbreaks. And the stench.”

Crowley thought about that for several minutes, then regarded the angel with one eye. “Pestilence won’t like that.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed.

“People will be in better moods; everything will be cleaner.”

Aziraphale nodded, watching him carefully.

As a demon, Crowley ought to be against that. He shouldn’t want things to be cleaner, or healthier, or happier for humans. But he lived in London, too. Unlike Hastur, he didn’t enjoy the smell of excrement.

“Yes, alright,” Crowley sighed, and closed his eyes again. “Can’t stop every act of Good, can I?”

“If you like, you could convince one of the engineers to take a bribe? Or convince the workers to go on strike?”

Crowley hummed. “Sounds fun.”

**1860 AD**

Crowley stared at Aziraphale as if he’d sprouted wings from his head. “You want to go _where_?”

“That new Turkish Bath,” Aziraphale repeated placidly, as if it were perfectly professional for an angel and a demon to spend their clandestine meeting nude together in hot air. They typically didn’t even sweat. Or get sore muscles. Not unless they wanted to.

“Why?”

“It sounds relaxing and very pleasant,” Aziraphale said, hinting at peevishness. “It’s just a suggestion.”

Crowley knew Aziraphale went to a real barber and a real manicurist and a real tailor. It was partially because of the whole ‘no frivolous miracles’ thing, but also because he was a sensualist. Aziraphale appreciated the fine things in life.

“It’s just not the same,” he had complained to Crowley once. “A miracle might mimic the real thing, but I’ll always know the difference.”

To Crowley, it was easier just to manifest his clothing and hair however he liked. This little quirk of Aziraphale’s was both bemusing and endearing. It made sense, in retrospect, that Aziraphale would like the idea of a sauna experience.

“Could give it a try, I guess.”

Crowley wasn’t an idiot. He knew the types of things select men got up to at select Turkish Baths. He had encouraged some of those things – he had a quota to fill, after all. But it was one thing to know it and another entirely to strip down with Aziraphale at his side and lounge in a heated room, when in an alcove around the corner he could sense two men getting handsy under their bath towels.

The other problem was that apparently the bath was a Quiet Space. This was not ideal for catching each other up on the past year’s goings on. Aziraphale had tried to strike up a conversation about Nightingale’s new nursing school and had swiftly become the victim of pointed throat clearing and death glares. So now they sat on a wooden bench, silent, while Crowley failed to ignore the fascinating way Aziraphale’s curls were slowly flattening in the heat. There were a few beads of sweat on his forehead, purely for the benefit of the other occupants who dozed or read papers. Only a small towel protected the angel’s modesty and Crowley found himself pondering the rather alarming realization that he had apparently developed masochistic tendencies at some point without noticing.

It wasn’t the first time he had seen Aziraphale naked. Public nudity had been commonplace at some times and places in human history. But it was the first time he had seen Aziraphale naked since realizing he was in love with him. That was the critical factor, it turned out.

At his side, Aziraphale shifted. “What?” he whispered.

Swallowing, Crowley turned his head away. A newspaper materialized in his hands, and he cleared his throat as he shook the pages open. His plan immediately backfired when Aziraphale leaned closer to read over his shoulder. “Stop that,” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale huffed. He pouted. With a growl, Crowley tore out the section with riddles and puzzles and passed it over. Smiling, Aziraphale wriggled in satisfaction and settled in. A man-shaped creature really should not wriggle while wearing nothing but a towel. Gritting his teeth, Crowley lifted the paper like blinders, narrowing his field of vision to the gossip articles. Not even the juiciest scandals could distract him from the fact that he was overly warm, basically naked, and hyperaware of the hand-span between their thighs. This was not nearly as relaxing as Aziraphale had promised.

A barely audible moan drifted around the corner. Crowley stiffened. Beside him, Aziraphale stood.

“Let’s cool off, dear.”

There were a handful of men swimming or chatting in the pool, but as the demon approached, they all abruptly recalled that they had something important to do at home. Aziraphale tutted when they all, simultaneously, shrugged into their bathrobes and vacated the room. Crowley wasn’t fooled.

“Just doing what you were thinking.”

Heart pounding, Crowley shed his towel and glasses without hesitation and slipped into the water. The cold hit him like a pleasant shot of adrenaline and he let himself sink until the water closed in over his head. He didn’t need the image of Aziraphale stripping out of a towel seared into his brain for the next century. It would just pop up at inopportune times and his imagination gave him enough trouble as it was.

He felt the water ripple when Aziraphale joined him. Panic flitted through him as he wondered if an angel in water automatically made it holy. But no, Aziraphale would never. There was nothing inherently holy with Aziraphale’s body, only the being it contained.

It was calm and quiet underwater. Even with his eyes closed, Crowley could track Aziraphale’s position from the movement of the water. He was tempted to stay submerged until Aziraphale prodded him to remind him of lunch, but with his luck one of the attendants would probably do something virtuous like try to save him from drowning and he really couldn’t be promoting that kind of behaviour.

Extending his legs, he pushed off the bottom of the shallow pool and stood, sweeping his wet hair out of his face. He felt a moment of nostalgia for the days when he had had longer hair and a simple flick of the head could tempt eighty percent of the humans around him. Soggy sideburns just didn’t have the same effect.

Blinking the water out of his eyes, Crowley sought out his angel companion and blinked once again. Aziraphale was swimming.

Elegant was not a word one would typically ascribe to Aziraphale. Doddering, fussy, and prim were all much more accurate descriptors. But as Crowley watched him complete unhurried laps, his strokes were clean and confident, the muscles in his arms and back flexing handsomely, his skin glistening with water.

It was an uncommon emotion Crowley was feeling. It was how he felt when he saw an especially stylish jacket, or met a particularly cool human, or witnessed someone do something undeniably heroic. It was admiration, and perhaps a bit of covetousness.

He didn’t realize he’d been caught staring until water splashed him in the face. Sputtering, Crowley reeled back, belligerence on his tongue. Aziraphale was standing in front of him, lips twitching.

“Did you just _splash_ a _demon_?”

“You were lost in space, dear. What’s on your mind?”

Crowley was sorely tempted to splash him back, but there was a look in Aziraphale’s eyes that promised that game would end in war. Instead, Crowley crossed his arms and circled the angel, peering at him like a laboratory specimen. “You can swim.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said slowly, following him with his eyes. “I believe I demonstrated as much just now.”

The curiosity was killing him. Water was definitely not a natural habitat for occult beings. “Why? When? How?”

With a shrug, Aziraphale looked down at his hands, his fingertips painting invisible pictures on the water’s surface. “It seemed like a useful skill. About 4800 years ago. And with much coaching and practice.”

Crowley did some quick mental math and felt his stomach drop. “The Flood.”

“It wasn’t a pleasant sensation,” Aziraphale admitted, still watching the water ripple around his fingers. “Helpless. Useless. I realized it was something one ought to learn when one lives on a planet that is seventy percent water.”

“The best swimmer in the world couldn’t have outswam that Flood, angel. That was rather the point, if I recall.”

“All the same. I enjoy it, the weightlessness. It’s a very bit like flying.”

Every ripple caused by Aziraphale’s body lapped against Crowley’s skin. Crowley came to a stop in front of him, fascinated by the water droplets caught in blond eyelashes. “Why are we here, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looked up. The water made his eyes look unfairly blue. “Well, for our meeting, obviously.”

“We could have met anywhere. Why here?”

“I told you I’d been meaning to try –”

Crowley scoffed. “Aziraphale.”

“Oh, fine.” Mirroring him, Aziraphale crossed his arms. He looked somewhere just right of Crowley’s face. “If you must know, I’ve noticed how tense you’ve been the last few decades. You’re snappish, moody, on edge.”

Crowley’s guts felt squirmy. “Demon.”

“It’s more than that. I don’t know what has got you in a huff, but I figured a nice, relaxing day at the baths would do you some good. If I’d known even this was objectionable, I wouldn’t have bothered.” Aziraphale was frowning now, wearing defensiveness like a coat. “I apologize for trying to do something kind for-for—”

“For?”

“It was just meant to be a nice gesture, but I can see you don’t appreciate it, so let’s just—” He started to turn away and Crowley’s fingernails bit into his palms.

“I do!”

Aziraphale looked back. “You do what?”

“You know.” Crowley waved his hands effusively, struggling to swallow around his heart in his throat. “What you just said.”

“Oh.” The defensiveness fell from his shoulders. A smile tugged at his lips.

Crowley had to look away. It was too much, Aziraphale looking at him like that, vulnerable, water lapping at his bare chest. For all that Aziraphale could be distant and inattentive, he had been paying attention to Crowley. He cared about Crowley.

It was an unfamiliar sensation for a demon, and Crowley felt hot all over. “Yeah, well,” he mumbled, and fell back under water again.

**1862 AD**

People and ducks alike jumped out of the way as though the devil himself were charging out of St. James’s Park. The flora, quaking in their roots, knew better.

“_Fraternissssing,_” Crowley spit, chest tight and face hot. Fraternising! As if they were nothing more than an angel and a demon in cahoots for the mere convenience. As if the only reason they even saw each other was for the sake of the Arrangement. He hissed a string of inventive obscenities, cursing stupid, ungrateful, uncaring angels. A woman covered her daughter’s ears with her hands and glared at him as he stalked past.

Crowley slammed into his flat, the door staying in one piece out of fear of being converted to wood chips.

“—known each other for nearly six thousand years, go out for dinner at least once a decade, saved his neck more than once—” Crowley’s walking stick clattered to the ground. His top hat hit one wall while his sunglasses hit another, leaving a dent in the wallpaper. “—bloody saved him from early retirement, not to mention the books, the chocolate!” He grabbed an unopened bottle of very expensive scotch from his alcohol cabinet, tearing at the seal with his teeth. He’d been saving it for a special occasion, possibly as a gift in exchange for the holy water. No reason to save it now. Crowley took several burning swigs in quick succession, collapsing into his kitchen chair.

Crowley’s flat was big, and expensive, and very empty. Only the walls and the _Mona Lisa_ sketch were witness to the demon slowly, painfully decimating the entire bottle of scotch.

“Don’ need you,” Crowley slurred, his throat and stomach burning. At least he knew it was from the alcohol and not the humiliation. The bottle helpfully refilled itself. “Fraternisssing, my arssse.” On unsteady legs, Crowley took the bottle to his bedroom and managed to stumble into bed without spilling a drop. This was thanks to extreme effort on the bottle’s part.

Crowley was unconscious before the third refill.

Two days later Crowley was battered into awareness by a _nightmarish_ hangover. He groaned in misery and buried himself under the covers. He was still wearing his clothes. He was still wearing his _shoes_. With supreme concentration, he miracled himself into his night gown and went back to sleep.

He woke a decade later to use the loo, saw that it was snowing, and went back to bed. Why the Heaven not? Crowley liked sleeping. Sleeping was wonderful, and uncomplicated, and relaxing. He’d have a lie in for another decade, maybe.

**1914 AD**

Crowley’s nap was rudely interrupted by the dreaded duo of Pestilence and War. It was a hit-the-ground-running kind of wake-up call.

He was unspeakably glad that Beelzebub saw little use for Crowley in the thick of battle – humans were doing enough killing on their own – and instead gave him a string of jobs that had him continent hopping for the next four years. Nothing was mentioned about his extended siesta. It was almost as if he didn’t actually make any difference to the sins of humanity (go figure). Or as if a certain fraternising angel had been picking up the slack for him.

Crowley read the newspaper every day. The War to End All Wars they called it; War certainly wouldn’t appreciate that. If he paid special attention to any articles that hinted at possible divine intervention, it was no one’s business but his own. Headlines shouted about Spanish Flu, mustard gas, machine guns, aerial combat, ever increasing casualties, the numbers too large to comprehend. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that Heaven had abandoned Earth entirely.

In between assignments, Crowley made a detour to Aziraphale’s shop. Crowley had put all of his belongings in storage and sold his flat, what with the air raids, but Aziraphale had apparently failed to do the same. The book shop was still intact, the windows blacked out, but when Crowley lurked closer, he could sense no angelic presence within. There was a note in the door window, in Aziraphale’s handwriting, that explained that the shop would be closed for the duration of the war efforts. At the sight, Crowley released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Aziraphale was still on earth, then. That little Aziraphale-sense in the back of his mind had been quiet for so long he hadn’t been sure.

By the time the war was over, Crowley had gotten over their disagreement from 1862. The holy water had been a lot to ask for, even for a best friend. As for the fraternising comment – they both had their hang-ups. But Aziraphale was clever, he’d figure it out eventually. That didn’t mean Crowley wasn’t going to let him stew in it though.

Crowley spent the next decade in America having, if he had to admit, an absolute blast. He – then she – spent several years as a flapper, partially because she couldn’t resist the fashionable outfits, but mostly to promote the societal chaos taking the country by storm. She sent a memo to Head Office about the Prohibition, possibly the most ironic rule the humans had ever made, and got a commendation for it. Nearly all of her time was spent in underground speakeasies, where she drank bootleggers’ alcohol, danced, smoked, gambled, and tempted to her heart’s content. She spent a year travelling with a jazz band, spreading their ‘deprave’ and ‘vulgar’ music to care-free, joyous young people everywhere, and when that got old, she ditched the flapper wardrobe for a salesman’s suit.

Consumer culture was new and exciting and Crowley took great joy in promoting it. _Can’t afford it? Pay later! _Radios, refrigerators, stylish clothes, washing machines, sewing machines: every family needed them. Crowley had one of everything, not because he used them, but because it made his neighbours jealous. In fact, he had two radios just because he couldn’t decide between the black or the red. And his personal favourite: the automobile. The Roadster, Phantom, Whippet, Speedster, Silver Ghost Torpedo – never before had Crowley known the true meaning of _cool_. He’d buy one every year and sell the old one, trying them on like a fresh outfit, an outfit that rumbled like a hellhound and went zero-to-sixty almost as fast as you could say _Crippling Dept_. What started as an affordable luxury was nearly a necessity by the end of the 1920s, at which point the stock market crashed and Crowley got the Hell out of Dodge.

Things weren’t much better across the pond, but to Crowley’s relief, automobiles were still a thing in London. In 1934 he became the proud owner of Bentley’s ‘silent sport’s car’. It was a beautiful machine in cool grey and sleek black, with leather seats that embraced you like a dream and, marvel of marvels, windscreen wipers. Crowley fancied himself in love, and he ought to know.

He resisted the urge to go find Aziraphale to show off his new toy, which he was sure would vex the angel to no end. It was difficult, being back in London and seeing their usual haunts, patronizing their favourite pubs alone. He nearly gave in to temptation to just bust into Aziraphale’s book shop one day, but then rumblings of war started up again and Crowley wasn’t going to miss capitalizing on that. Honestly, the humans thought it up themselves.

**1941 AD**

Agent Anthony J. Crowley was very good at his job. What his job was he couldn’t tell you, or he’d have to kill you. Or at least wipe your memory with a demonic miracle. Despite the secrecy, he had nonetheless made a name for himself amongst MI5 and the various spies lurking around London. Wouldn’t do for a demon to be humble, after all.

He liked to think he was an exemplary secret agent because he was clever, underhanded, ruthless, and smooth. In reality, what made him so good at uncovering spies was that he could cheat. More specifically, he could get a human to tell him the truth and then forget ever having said anything. His apparent skill fostered both jealousy and admiration amongst his colleagues, who then tried twice as hard to out-perform him.

“There’s been a development,” Thomas confided over dinner, his beefy hands covering a manila folder like a coveted prize. The small group of agents leaned closer to hear, while Crowley sipped his coffee and glanced around the room absently, just to make Thomas more desperate for his attention. “Rose Montgomery. I spotted her handing off an envelope to Glozier—”

“The one in contact with Harmony?” Maggie cut in, a piece of lettuce falling from her sandwich.

“The very same. Montgomery has been sneaking around libraries and book shops for weeks.”

“Book shops?” Jack took a drag of his cigarette. “What are they looking for in public literature?”

“Well,” Thomas grinned and lowered his voice further, relishing their attention. “I intercepted one of Harmony’s telegrams and get this: they’re after books of _prophecy_.”

“Prophecy?” Crowley parroted. “You sure you didn’t mis-translate?”

Thomas bristled while Maggie snorted with laughter, half her lettuce now on the table. “Delusional is what they are.”

Crowley, who had met a prophet or two in his lifetime, wasn’t so sure about that.

“I didn’t mis-translate,” Thomas insisted, opening the folder and shuffling through the papers. “They’ve caught one poor sod in their snare. Listen to this: _Soho Bookseller. St. Johns. Midnight._”

Crowley’s heart stopped. “May I?” He dragged the folder across the table without waiting for a reply.

“Your hands better be clean,” Thomas sniped.

“Oh, let them take the books,” Jack grumbled, stubbing out his cigarette. “We have bigger fish to fry.”

“I asked for one of the new lads to keep an eye out, but I doubt it’ll be approved in time,” Thomas admitted. “Ten to one the bookseller shows up dead tomorrow.”

Crowley stood abruptly, his chair nearly tipping backwards.

The three agents stared at the famous Anthony J. Crowley, who was gripping a photograph so tightly his fingertips were white. His face was very stiff, an odd yellowish hue leaking around the edges of his sunglasses.

Maggie glanced at the other two, who shook their heads and shrugged. “Alright, Anthony?”

“I’ll go.” Crowley slammed down the photo on the table, the photo taken through the dusty window of a book shop, showing a white-haired man in conversation with a woman dressed in black.

“_You_ will? This isn’t your usual type of job. You don’t even have a gun!”

“Don’t need one.”

Thomas glanced at his watch. “It’s after eleven already, you’ll never make it.”

When he looked up, Crowley was already gone.

The Bentley, technically, wasn’t designed to go much faster than ninety miles per hour. It also, technically, required petrol to function, but Crowley had never much seen the point of that. At the moment, Crowley needed to go _faster_, so the Bentley went _faster_.

It wasn't as though Aziraphale's actual life was at risk, not that discorporation was very pleasant. The most he had to lose was his dignity. But Crowley couldn't imagine Heaven would be too forgiving when Aziraphale admitted that he had been duped by a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies. He wouldn't get another corporation for _ages_ and Crowley hadn't even seen him since 1862.

By the time he swerved to a stop in front of the church, it was quarter past midnight.

“No, no, no, no, c’mon, angel,” Crowley snarled, feet barely touching the ground as he sprinted down the path, holiness raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Aziraphale was still in there, Crowley could sense him, but so were three human souls full of malice. He didn’t stop to question the insanity of what he was about to do.

The drive to Aziraphale’s shop was quiet. Humans said absence made the heart grow fonder, but Crowley wasn’t sure how to read Aziraphale’s shell-shocked expression, or the white-knuckled grip he had on Harmony’s briefcase.

“I didn’t miss any books, did I?”

Aziraphale twitched, brought out of whatever reverie he had been lost in. “Oh. Um.” He popped open the bag’s clasps and peered inside, lips moving as he listed the books within. “No, no, they’re all here. I really can’t thank you enough—”

“Stop.”

Aziraphale’s mouth snapped shut. He peered out the window at the passing buildings. The streets were deserted at this time of night, with air raid sirens still wailing in the distance.

Crowley shifted in his seat and urged the Bentley faster. “You okay?”

Aziraphale nodded, then shook his head, and the rest of the drive was silent.

When Crowley parked in front of the book shop, Aziraphale did not seem to notice. Crowley cut the engine, exited the car, and walked around to open the passenger door. Aziraphale blinked up at him.

“Ah, silly me.”

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets to stop himself from offering Aziraphale a hand up. Once standing, Aziraphale seemed to notice the car for the first time.

“Is this yours?”

“Yeah.” Crowley drew a fond hand over the Bentley’s roof. “Incredible machine. I’ve had it from new.”

“It’s very nice,” Aziraphale offered and Crowley couldn’t be bothered to correct him.

Aziraphale stepped onto the pavement and Crowley slammed the car door shut. They faced each other, Crowley leaning against the Bentley and Aziraphale with his back to the shop, clutching the briefcase in both hands.

They spoke at the same time.

“I should get going,” said Crowley.

“Would you like to come in?” said Aziraphale.

“Er.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped. “Right, of course.”

Crowley cursed himself. “I could come round tomorrow? For dinner? We should probably catch each other up.”

Some light returned to Aziraphale’s eyes. He smiled. “That would be lovely. How about seven?”

“Seven. Got it.”

They smiled at each other, and before Crowley could do something stupid like seize Aziraphale’s face and kiss him senseless, he jumped back into the Bentley and gunned it.

Crowley was too jumpy to go home. Instead, he found himself returning to the ruins of the church.

He didn’t know what he was doing until he was picking through the smoldering rubble, looking for any sign of that font of holy water. It was a long shot, but the search allowed him to blow off his jittery energy and distracted him from overanalyzing Aziraphale’s odd behaviour. He threw around stone slabs until he came across an eagle statue. No, not a statue, a lectern, the one he’d seen behind Aziraphale earlier. Its bible had been burning before, but now the fire was extinguished, the eagle’s wings scorched and black.

Crowley stood and stared at it for several long minutes.

He still had another few miracles in him. With the first snap of the fingers, he cleaned the lectern of soot and debris, though he left the charred remnants of the bible nestled between the eagle’s wings. With the second snap, he transported the lectern into the Bentley’s improbably spacious trunk.

By the time he had driven home, he had decided on the perfect spot for it. It fit perfectly in his hallway, predatory, and imposing, and with more symbolism than Crowley was comfortable admitting.

He went to bed and dreamt of burning wings and love unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone catch that iambic heptameter? My high school English teacher would be proud.


	14. 1954 AD - 2013 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dates with Aziraphale, the moon landing, Y2K, reality tv, and terrorism - the world is complicated, but Crowley wouldn't have it any other way. He certainly doesn't want it to end.

**1954 AD **

At long last, the war’s rationing regulations were lifted, and Crowley used the excuse to tempt Aziraphale to a spot of lunch. Either Crowley had become infinitely more persuasive while sleeping or Aziraphale had lost his will power, because all it took was: “You pick, I’ll drive.”

Aziraphale requested a new Chinese restaurant he had heard of, and they were off.

“Are we late for a reservation?” Aziraphale gasped, gripping the dash with both hands.

Crowley swerved around a pedestrian. “I have never once, in my entire life, made a reservation.”

“Then why – _watch out! _– why are you going so damnably _fast_?”

Crowley grinned and took a corner sharply enough that two of the Bentley’s wheels left the ground. “Ever heard of a speed demon?”

“Oh, good Lord.”

They arrived in one piece, save for Aziraphale’s shattered nerves. The food was a far sight better than London’s typical bland cuisine, if Aziraphale’s moans at every new dish were anything to go by.

“This is delightful, Crowley. You simply must try this.”

Crowley obligingly plucked up a bao bun to sample. “It’s like you haven’t eaten in years, angel.”

“I haven’t since before the war,” Aziraphale agreed, selecting a slice of Peking duck with his chopsticks. “It didn’t seem right with the rationing.”

Aghast, Crowley nudged his plate closer to Aziraphale.

“Were you around for that terrible fog two years ago?” Aziraphale continued. “I swear the pollution gets worse every day…”

For over three hours they ate and drank and talked, moving through topics with the ease of millennia-old friends. Films, music, and fashion were all interspersed with light-hearted philosophical debates, while Crowley leaned back in his seat and felt really quite lucky, for a demon.

**1967 AD**

It was through a newspaper advert for the new James Bond film that Crowley found out about the bullet-hole decals promotion. The local petrol stations were giving complementary decals when you filled up your car, which Crowley thought was a fantastic idea. He would never stand for the Bentley having actual bullet holes in the windows, but stickers that made it look like he was a daring spy who had just barely escaped a shoot-out with his life?

Crowley dropped the newspaper and grabbed his keys. His rendezvous at the Dirty Donkey about the church robbery wasn’t until nine anyway.

The 60’s were proving to be an interesting decade. Crowley was a big fan of the cinema and he enjoyed the music, but neither him nor Aziraphale were taking responsibility for the hippies. Or all the psychedelic…everything.

Crowley was whistling as he drove to the rendezvous that night. He had a pocketful of bribe money, a plan to get holy water, and three newly applied bullet-hole decals on the Bentley’s window. For the first time, the car’s fuel gauge pointed to ‘full’, but Crowley couldn’t tell any difference.

Then all of his plans were derailed by an innocuous looking tartan thermos.

“It’s the real thing?”

“The holiest.”

Crowley could feel it, even through the insulating plastic, the deadly power within. For a moment, looking into Aziraphale’s damp eyes, he was dumbstruck by the enormity of what Aziraphale was risking for him. His job, his reputation, his principles and peace of mind – he’d put Crowley ahead of all of it.

“I’ll give you a lift,” he offered, prepared to offer so much more. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale’s pained expression didn’t go away. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” He got out of the car and hurried down the street, not looking back.

Crowley cupped the thermos in his hands and tried to make sense of his thoughts.

He was still making sense of them when he got home. He collapsed into his office chair, placed the thermos on the desk, and stared at it for a good half hour. He came to four conclusions.

  1. Aziraphale loved him. Not the holy way with the capital ‘L’, but the messy, human way. And yet he hadn’t Fallen.
  2. Aziraphale had reached a limit by giving him the holy water. A limit that Crowley had pushed him to in his willingness to risk his safety for an occult weapon.
  3. Aziraphale was still firmly, obstinately, in a My Side, Your Side mentality.
  4. No matter how fast Crowley was going, he didn’t want to leave Aziraphale behind.

Feeling dazed, but hopeful, Crowley tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. “This part of Your plan, too?”

**1969 AD**

They listened to the moon landing together because the closest thing Aziraphale had to a radio was an ancient gramophone. Crowley had driven them outside the city so that they could look up at the night sky and see the stars while over the radio Armstrong’s static-y voice said, _“one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind”._

“What an incredible achievement,” Aziraphale breathed, looking out through the windscreen.

Puffing up a bit with pride, Crowley leaned back in his chair. “I had a bit of a hand in it.”

Aziraphale looked at him in surprise. “_You_ did?”

“Well, it wasn’t scientific curiosity funding the Space Race, now was it?”

Aziraphale considered this, looking back up at the moon. “Perhaps this will be a humbling experience for them. They will see the shear size and beauty of the Earth and get a sense of unity.”

“Gosh, I hope not.”

They sat in companionable silence for a bit, listening to the radio. Crowley felt oddly at peace. It was easy to forget your troubles when sitting under the stars, while the love of your life was next to you, loving you back. Just because neither of them said it didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

“You know, if I looked at the fine print on my job contract, I bet the moon wouldn’t be included in my jurisdiction.”

“You have a job contract?”

“Hell’s idea of a joke. They’ll do whatever they like to me, piece of paper or not, they just thought it would be funny to have me sign off on it. Anyway, my point is that, technically, I bet the moon is home-free.”

“I suppose that makes sense from a business standpoint,” Aziraphale mused. “Imagine all the resources we’d have to expend to get there just to bless or tempt a handful of astronauts.”

“Exactly.”

“Rather complicates things, doesn’t it?”

“That’s humans for you.”

During the 1970’s Crowley dabbled with workers’ strikes, punk culture, and disco, but was mostly absorbed by the M25 project. It was one of his biggest and most inspired ideas of the century – Aziraphale had called it _diabolical_ when Crowley had given him a heads-up – which was why Hell’s lukewarm reception was so infuriating.

“Not an ounce of vision between the lot of them,” he complained, snatching his water mister.

His plants were a recent acquisition, but he was already quite pleased with them. They really leant an aura of fear and hopelessness to his flat. He happily bullied and threatened the plants once a week, but after meetings in Hell, he was always in the mood for something a bit more fiendish. He mercilessly shredded a lemon lime dracaena with browning leaf tips and then a weak-willed ficus that started dropping leaves at the mere sound of the garbage disposal.

He felt much better afterwards.

In 1986 when the M25 was fully opened, Crowley found a commendation mixed in with his junk mail.

“Huh. Recognition at last.” He mildly regretted the somewhat catty note he’d sent Below with that bundle of computer warranty agreements.

Crowley spent several years enjoying the illegal motor racing that the M25 attracted, and was sorely irked when speed cameras were introduced to the motorway at the end of the decade. Suspicious of divine intervention, he sicced the tax authorities on a certain scrupulous, angelic businessman in retaliation.

By the time 1990 rolled around, Crowley began experiencing an unsettling amount of existential dread. He couldn’t help but notice that the Earth was approaching its expiration date.

“You heard anything from your side?” he asked Aziraphale over the phone.

“No. Yours?”

“Nothing.” Crowley could hear Aziraphale breathe over the line.

“Perhaps they’ve changed their minds?”

Crowley snorted. “That’s likely.” Aziraphale was possibly the only angel who could pick up on sarcasm.

Feeling antsy, Crowley spent a couple months looking at exorbitantly priced flats and annoying estate agents, then moved into a criminally expensive flat in Mayfair. It was spacious, arguably too spacious for a single person, with a lounge, a bedroom, a kitchen, an office, and a toilet, each room furnished by a team of interior designers who had been sent into ecstasies by Crowley’s pronouncement of ‘I don’t care what it looks like, just make it as stylish as possible’.

Once he had moved everything in – his television, laserdisc player, music collection, secret book collection (that Aziraphale would never know about), ansaphone, two telephones, sound system (but no speakers), fax machine, and computer – he invited Aziraphale over for a house-warming party. Aziraphale brought wine and made a valiant effort not to show his distaste for the cold, sterile décor, and Crowley tortured him with modern music for a bit before switching to something they both enjoyed.

“I swear the Bentley is cursed.” Crowley was sprawled sideways in his throne-chair while his foot swung to the rhythm of Handel’s Water Music. The sound reproduction was perfect. “It refuses to play anything but Queen. The band, I mean.”

Aziraphale was perched on Crowley’s new, white leather sofa, which wasn’t designed for sitting so much as to make it look like you entertained highly important people. His eyes were closed and he swayed his finger like a conductor’s baton. “I thought you liked all that new-fangled bebop?”

“First of all, it’s not bebop. Secondly, there’s only so many times you can listen to their greatest hits before the ear worms start driving you mad.”

“After sixty years, you can’t really blame the car for getting a mind of its own.”

“It’s a bloody nuisance,” Crowley insisted, but with the tone of voice of a fond parent.

They very carefully did not mention Armageddon the entire evening.

**2000 AD**

“Happy New Year, angel,” Crowley sang as the clock ticked over midnight. “Here’s to another year of wiling and tempting.”

“Another year of love and blessings,” Aziraphale countered, and clinked their champagne flutes together unsteadily. “Thank goodness the Y2K mess is over with.”

Crowley guffawed into his glass and nearly fell off Aziraphale’s sofa. “This has been one of the best years in ages.”

“You would say that. Just the other day I saw two people fighting over a case of bottled water. As if they really expected the world to end.”

Crowley’s snickers died down. They regarded each other soberly, or as soberly as was possible after two bottles of wine and half a bottle of champagne. Crowley felt very badly, just then, and tried to wash away the feeling with more bubbly.

“Of course, it isn’t,” Aziraphale said, softly. “Ending.”

“Yet,” Crowley mumbled, and Aziraphale pretended not to hear him.

**2001 AD**

Crowley spent the next year becoming unhealthily obsessed with reality television, game shows (he was quite proud of his contribution to that), and the Snake game on his new Nokia mobile telephone. Earth was incredibly vibrant and interesting, the people were fascinating, and Crowley was terribly glad to be part of it.

Then, on September 11, Aziraphale called him.

“Oh, Crowley, have you heard the news?”

Crowley, who was watching the footage on his television, nodded. “Yeah, angel.”

“I’m being stationed in America effective immediately. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”

“Can I…” The hand holding the telephone shook. “Do you need anything?”

“Would you mind checking on the shop every now and again? Just in case of vandalism or theft or, or—”

“Yeah. Yeah, Aziraphale, I’ll check, don’t worry.”

Aziraphale’s heavy exhale crackled over the connection. “Thank you, dear.”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley said, gently but firm.

“Right. Off I pop, then.”

“Angel.”

“Yes?”

Crowley was silent for a moment. On the television, smoke billowed out of the Twin Towers. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

There was another moment of white noise. “I’ll give you a call when I get back, shall I?”

Aziraphale was gone for nearly a year. It wasn’t a terribly long time – they normally didn’t even see each other every year – but somehow, driving by the shop every day and knowing that Aziraphale wasn’t there made Crowley miss him even more. He made a habit of hanging around in the shop whenever he saw someone suspicious loitering by the front door. He’d tidy Aziraphale’s monstrously disorganized books, partially to be a pest, but partially because things just made more _sense_ in alphabetical order. He may have also, secretly, skimmed a few novels. Only the really evil ones.

Counter to his blustering back in 1862, Crowley didn’t have lots of people to fraternize with. He had a small organization of human operatives that he paid annually to run errands for him, and he came across the odd demon every century or so. He had neighbours whom he greeted in the hallways and a favourite server at the pub down the street who never cut Crowley off. Other than his plants, Crowley didn’t ever _really_ talk to anyone other than Aziraphale.

But that was fine. What was there to talk about anyway?

**2005 AD**

As a rule, if Crowley needed to find Aziraphale, the angel was in his shop seventy five percent of the time. The remaining twenty five percent of the time he could be found frequenting some sort of food establishment, art exhibition, museum, or book auction, or completing a job for Heaven. This was more or less the opposite of Crowley, who could generally only be found in his flat when he decided to sleep or when he got caught up binge watching _Golden Girls_ reruns.

While Aziraphale didn’t get out as much as Crowley did, he did still get out, mostly by walking and public transport. Sometimes, Crowley suspected, Aziraphale would invite him to events just for the free ride. Although, considering his reaction to Crowley’s driving, perhaps not.

The point was that Aziraphale tended to use public transport, and according to the radio’s breaking news, there had been several explosions on the Underground trains.

Crowley made a sharp U-turn that resulted in three near-collisions and fumbled for his phone. He smashed the speed dial button without looking.

“C’mon, c’mon, pick up, pick up,” he muttered and swerved around a Ford.

Aziraphale didn’t have voicemail, which meant the telephone could ring for an eternity if Aziraphale was distracted or out. Crowley tailgated a VW, blaring the horn until they moved. _Please let Aziraphale be lost in one of his books_, he thought.

He screeched to a halt on the pavement in front of the shop four minutes later and was out of the car before it had completely stopped.

“Angel!” He slammed into the shop, the bell above the door clanging rather more violently than its usual tinkle. He hadn’t noticed the ‘closed’ sign on the front door. “Angel, you here?”

The telephone was still ringing. Crowley hung up the phone clenched in his fist.

Growling under his breath, Crowley stalked through the bookshelves, but he already knew he wouldn’t find Aziraphale here. He couldn’t sense him. “Damnit!” If he had managed to get himself discorporated Crowley would be _so_ pissed off.

He paced in front of the windows, glowering at the people walking on the pavement outside. He shouldn’t have been worried. Aziraphale was probably just doing an errand. In fact, he was probably completely unaware of what had happened. Crowley ought to just stay here and wait for Aziraphale to (hopefully) come back. Even better, Crowley ought to just go home.

He grimaced, coming to a standstill of indecision in front of the door. _Why_ did Aziraphale refuse to get a mobile phone?

In the end, his own restlessness spurred him into action. Crowley was not particularly good at waiting around doing nothing (patience was a virtue after all). Locking the book shop door behind him, he jumped into the Bentley and, arranging matters so no one was in his way, got to the first emergency site in five minutes.

It was chaos, the streets filled with first responders, bloodied victims, and good Samaritans. It took about thirty seconds for Crowley to realize Aziraphale wasn’t there and to jump back in the car. He wasn’t at the second site either, but at the third, Crowley, at last, sensed him.

His knees nearly buckled when he got out of the car. “Thank Satan.”

The angel was standing on the pavement several feet back from the police tape with his hands clasped, eyes closed, and head bowed. He looked like he was praying, the divinity radiating out of him so strongly that the onlookers instinctively gave him a wide berth. Crowley weaved through the crowds to get to him.

“Angel.” Crowley came to a stop at Aziraphale’s side and forced his heart to stop beating so unnecessarily fast.

“Don’t distract me, please,” Aziraphale said.

Miracles were flying from him like anything, no wonder he was so focused. Nothing major. No resurrections or limbs re-growing, that wasn’t really Heaven’s style these days. But as Crowley watched, he started to get a sense of what Aziraphale was doing. Required medical supplies were available and within easy reach. People who were panicking were given peace. Unstable structures below ground were holding steady. Blood loss was being slowed, calls to loved ones got through, first responders knew where to look in the wreckage. And the miracles weren’t just localized, but being sent all over Central London, to the other explosion sites as well.

If Crowley looked hard enough, into a dimension humans couldn’t even comprehend, he could see Aziraphale’s immense wings spread wide, a guardian angel’s shield of protection. He was glorious. He was a total badass.

After getting his fill of gawking, Crowley left him to it. He moved the Bentley out of the way of emergency vehicles and then turned off the engine, leaving the radio on to get updates while he waited. By the time the evacuations were over, it had been announced that the explosions had been a terrorist attack.

Aziraphale wandered down the street five minutes after the last ambulance had departed.

Crowley jumped out of the car and opened the passenger door for him. “Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale flinched. He looked exhausted. “Crowley. What are you doing here?”

“Lift home? Promise I’ll go the speed limit.”

Aziraphale smiled wearily and plopped into the passenger seat with less grace than usual, leaning his head back against the headrest. True to his word, Crowley drove sedately back to the shop, abiding by every law of the road. He couldn’t help stealing glances at his passenger every minute.

“You didn’t accuse me of instigating the explosions.”

“Of course not. I know that sort of thing isn’t your _modus operandi_, dear.”

Aziraphale had to lean a bit heavier than Crowley liked on the Bentley’s door to pull himself out of the vehicle.

“Haven’t seen you expend yourself like that since the 15th century.”

“Nothing a cup of cocoa won’t remedy.” He was still gripping the door.

Crowley decided that if there were ever a time to invite himself in, this was it. “Mind if I get a cup, too?” He was already walking around the front of the car.

Aziraphale led him inside without complaint, at which point Crowley slipped past to beat him to the kitchenette in the back room.

“I’ve got it,” he called. “You never get the chocolate to milk ratio right.”

It took a minor miracle for Crowley to successfully operate Aziraphale’s ancient kettle, but he managed not to burn anything. When he reached for the mugs on the top shelf, he paused.

Several years ago, Crowley had come across a kitschy mug with angel wings for the handle, which he had gifted to Aziraphale as a joke. Aziraphale had unironically loved it, and apparently used it regularly, since it was the mug within easiest reach.

He poured the hot cocoa into two mugs, stirring in a healthy amount of Bailey’s while he worked to suppress his smile. He turned to find Aziraphale in their favourite nook, and pushed the angel-mug into his hands before sitting across from him. Aziraphale looked into his cocoa speculatively.

“It’s different, somehow,” he said, “so close to home.”

“You alright?”

He nodded and took a sip, relaxing into his chair. Then, he seemed to remember something. “Why were you looking for me, anyway?”

Crowley leaned back, sprawling carelessly. “Uh, no reason. Just wanted to, y’know, catch up.” Then he couldn’t think of anything to catch up on. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, content to sit in silence and sip hot cocoa while Crowley stared, drinking him in from behind his sunglasses.

“This was very n – an unexpected pleasure,” Aziraphale murmured once they’d finished their drinks, smiling warmly. “I’m glad you found me.”

_I will always find you_, Crowley thought.

**2008 AD**

It had begun. The end of it all. All because of a baby Crowley hadn’t had the nerve to leave on the side of the road. Or in the Thames.

He wasn’t ready. The world still had so much more to offer and Crowley wanted to experience it all. Experience it all with Aziraphale.

Not to mention all the people! All the animals! There had to be a way to fix this. Eleven years wasn’t enough.

**2013 AD**

Christmas was quite popular in Hell. Crowley had put an awful lot of effort into turning Christmas into the stressful, consumerist holiday that Warlock was enjoying now. Every year, people would spend money they didn’t have on gifts for family members they didn’t even like, and then get utterly plastered to cope with it all. The insanity-inducing jingles in every store and on every radio station, the overly-long family dinners where something always burned, the noisy battery-powered toys that every kid got from a sadistic grandparent or aunt or uncle – Crowley had gotten more than one commendation for his hand in it all.

It was, as the humans said, the most wonderful time of the year.

It was also the time of year when Aziraphale became irreparably grumpy. Normally it was from all the effort of fending off Christmas shoppers from his books.

“Won’t you join us, Brother Francis?” Nanny Ashtoreth wheedled, tucking the antichrist against one hip and holding out a hand to the gardener. “These _darling_ carolers were just about to sing for us.”

Brother Francis made a quiet noise of horror in the back of his throat. “Oh, I really couldn’t. I have to, er, prune the rose bushes—”

“The rose bushes have gone dormant for the winter. I’m sure Warlock would love for you to come have a listen with us, wouldn’t you, dear?”

Warlock, half hidden by Nanny’s skirt, peeked up at the overly-smiley, rosy-cheeked family of carolers. He nodded.

With a pained smile – Nanny Ashtoreth was never going to get used to those godawful teeth – Brother Francis inched up to the doorstep – and were the eyebrows really necessary? – and took Warlock’s hand. The family began to sing.

Crowley loved carolers almost as much as Aziraphale couldn’t stand them. Nothing quite said Christmas spirit like having to awkwardly stand in the cold while a bunch of strangers sang off-key renditions of overplayed songs.

After an ear-grating version of _Away in a Manger_, Nanny Ashtoreth clapped delicately, Warlock and Francis following suit.

“You must be freezing,” Brother Francis gushed desperately. “Let me get you all some hot cocoa.”

Nanny Ashtoreth stopped him with a sweet smile. “And let you track mud into the whole house? No, no, you stay with Warlock, I’ll fetch the cocoa.”

Brother Francis gave her a look of utter betrayal as the carolers started up a painfully slow _Silent Night_. Nanny Ashtoreth couldn’t help but snicker. It was too easy to torture him.

A nanny had to have her fun somehow.

Since neither Nanny Ashtoreth nor Brother Francis had any family, so to speak, the Dowlings invited them both to Christmas eve dinner. Brother Francis, the bastard, accepted for the both of them.

Christmas dinners were always strained, and this one was no different. Mr. and Mrs. Dowling barely spoke, Mr. Dowling was drunk before dinner even started, and Warlock had a fit over having to wait to open presents. Brother Francis gave an overly long prayer before the meal and Nanny Ashtoreth provided running commentary on all the ways Christmas was a terrible way to celebrate Christ.

Despite herself, Nanny Ashtoreth enjoyed the dinner greatly. Brother Francis waxed poetic over the food while Nanny Ashtoreth helped Warlock sneak Brussel sprouts into the table centre flowers. During dessert, she accidentally knocked her foot against Brother Francis’s, and they finished the rest of the meal with their feet pressed together like a courting Victorian couple. It was marvelous.

Of course, it all fell apart as they were leaving. She had forgotten about the mistletoe.

Warlock noticed first and gave a squeal of delight, pointing excitedly. “Brother Francis and Nanny are under the miss-toe!”

Nanny Ashtoreth bit back a groan. Duplicitous little brat. Apparently hiding Brussel sprouts was not enough to engender loyalty from the antichrist.

“Right you are, my son!” Mr. Dowling crowed, more than a little red in the face. He pulled Warlock into an affectionate headlock. “Give the lady a kiss, Mr. Francis.”

“Tad!” Harriet admonished, giving Ashtoreth a sympathetic look. “You’re drunk. Come here, Warlock, honey.”

“_Brother_ Francis,” Brother Francis corrected in consternation.

“Means no kissing,” Nanny Ashtoreth translated.

Warlock wriggled out from under his father’s arm. “How come you don’t wanna kiss Nanny, Brother Francis?”

“It’s not that I don’t – I mean – there’s this thing called a vow of chastity – I don’t entirely understand it myself, but—”

“Francis,” Nanny Ashtoreth growled under her breath.

Brother Francis’s accent was wandering further and further east. “Obviously, if I _could_, which I can’t –”

Mrs. Dowling was looking at him with embarrassed pity. Mr. Dowling knelt and whispered something into Warlock’s ear, pointing at them conspiratorially. Nanny Ashtoreth attempted to burn Mr. Dowling to a crisp with her eyes.

With a mischievous smile, Warlock scurried to Brother Francis’s side and tugged on his shirt until he, blessedly, shut up. He bent so that Warlock could cup his little hand over Brother Francis’s ear and deliver the message. This was going nowhere good.

“Thank you again for the meal, Mr. and Mrs. Dowling,” Nanny Ashtoreth attempted, inching for the door. “It was very—” Her mouth snapped shut when Brother Francis’s hand took hers. She nearly fell out of character.

Eyes wide, she allowed Brother Francis to lift her hand, watching, dumbfounded, as the distance between her knuckles and his lips shortened. When he kissed the back of her hand, she closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at his stupid disguise, then opened them to remind herself that this wasn’t real. This was pretend. They were acting.

But Aziraphale’s eyes were very, very soft.

“Atta boy.” Mr. Dowling raised a hand and Warlock ran to give his father a high five. Nanny Ashtoreth snapped out of it. Brother Francis released her hand.

They quickly departed after that. Crowley found himself rubbing at his hand the whole way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end, friends!


	15. End of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch at the Ritz passed in an almost dreamlike state of bliss. Aziraphale was scintillating, his joy infectious and his affection free as he laid a hand on Crowley’s arm, or pressed their feet together, or looked at him warmly when Crowley laughed. Crowley found himself laughing often, defenseless against that affectionate gaze.
> 
> It was a brave new world. A world with no script and no set purpose. It was a liberating and terrifying prospect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One extra chapter because our angel and demon had a lot to figure out together.

**2019 AD – 2 Days Before the End of the World**

Hell’s employees experienced one of the highest levels of stress of any workplace on Earth, beat only by army humans and those people who coordinated fancy weddings. This was primarily due to a clause in the employment contract which stated that torture would be used as discipline for anything from a late report to doing good deeds. Ever since Crowley’s reports on the Spanish Inquisition, Hell had gotten creative. The demons who didn’t experience this stress were the ones who liked that sort of thing.

There were different tiers of torture for different levels of fuck-ups, but Crowley was pretty sure there was no official tier severe enough for misplacing the antichrist. Getting another black mark on his record probably couldn’t make things any worse, but he didn’t feel any pressing need to test that theory. Plus, Aziraphale kept prattling on about ‘flashes of love’ as if Crowley, one of the Fallen, was supposed to feel it, and Crowley was mostly at peace with his demonic status, but it chafed a bit, being reminded that he had lost that particular sense.

“I’ve always said that deep down, you really are quite a nice—”

He seized Aziraphale’s lapels and pushed him against the wall, just hard enough to get his undivided attention.

“Shut it!” he snarled, right into Aziraphale’s unimpressed face. “I’m a demon. I’m not nice.” They were so close their noses brushed and Crowley felt a wild impulse to push closer still, do something that would really shock his unflappable companion. He curb-stomped that visual. “I’m never nice. Nice is a four-letter word. I will not have—”

A profoundly unhelpful satanic nun interrupted them, and they got back to business as usual. 

**One Day to the End of the World**

They were running out of time, Crowley was running out of patience, and Aziraphale was running away from him. Since neither of them was willing to kill the antichrist, Crowley only saw one other option.

“We can go off together,” he beseeched, spreading his arms, and received scoffing and tearful lies in response. “We’re on our side,” Crowley hissed, not backing down.

“There is no ‘our side’, Crowley. Not anymore. It’s over.”

Struck speechless, Crowley stared at him. Aziraphale looked like the words were killing him. He looked the way Crowley felt.

“Right,” he managed, and kept staring, waiting for Aziraphale to take it back. They were out of time, but still Crowley waited, a beat, two. The angel looked back, relentless, tears in his eyes. “Well, then.” He waited another several seconds for Aziraphale to crumble. He didn’t. “Ng.” Gathering the remaining shreds of his dignity, Crowley turned away.

Crowley was a consummate actor. He had been bluffing to Hell since the beginning of time and pretending he wasn’t in love with an angel for over a millennium. A cool, uncaring demon wouldn’t be phased by six thousand years of friendship being torn apart like a spotty houseplant. Cool, uncaring demons didn’t know what it felt like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and stomped on, except maybe in the literal sense. So, it was a cool, uncaring demon that threw a jovial, “Have a nice doomsday,” over his shoulder.

If Aziraphale was going to torture himself and bury every good thing they had built between them, then Crowley would just leave him to his holy martyrdom. He wasn’t going to stick around to watch.

But he couldn’t abandon him either. Back in his flat, he flipped through stars and planets and galaxies and couldn’t picture himself on any of them. There was no bloody point without Aziraphale at his side.

**Last Day of the World**

He slammed out of his flat and went to waste Earth’s remaining hours in a cinema. He bought popcorn, because that’s what people did, and lost himself in some children’s film where everyone was kind and nothing bad ever happened.

Of course, Hastur had to ruin that, too.

_Time heals all wounds_ was an adage that Crowley and Aziraphale’s friendship had survived on. Any argument could be swept under the rug with enough time and a big enough broom, and both of them had become adept at sweeping over the millennia. But they were out of time, which meant Crowley would have to stoop to desperate measures.

He practically threw himself out of the car when he spotted Aziraphale on the pavement. “Angel! I’m sorry. I apologize. Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it. Work with me, I’m apologizing here.”

It didn’t work.

“We can run away together!” he continued desperately, nearly tripping over his own words. “Alpha Centauri. Lots of spare planets up there, no one would even notice us.”

Aziraphale couldn’t be convinced, and for once his stubborn streak wasn’t cute. His blind faith was crossing the line into willful ignorance, and Crowley was terrified. He was scared for his life, scared for the Earth, but this: this terrified him.

“I’m going to have a word with the Almighty and then the Almighty will fix it,” Aziraphale insisted and Crowley wanted to grip him by the shoulders and shake him until he saw sense.

“That won’t happen! You’re so clever, how can somebody as clever as you be _so_ stupid?”

Aziraphale didn’t take the bait. He was too clever for Crowley’s wiles and distractions. He was clever enough to justify nearly anything to himself. “I forgive you,” he said, all holier-than-thou.

Crowley’s stomach sank. It was hopeless. As far as he could tell, Aziraphale valued Heaven over Crowley, and Crowley’s chest hurt. There was a part of him, the part that wasn’t petrified and hurt and desperate, that was disappointed. It was the part that had, despite his best efforts, hoped that maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale would pick him in the end. “When I’m off in the stars I won’t even think about you!”

That was a laugh.

Crowley had promised himself that he wouldn’t use his own feelings as a persuasion tactic. Heaven didn’t give a fig about Aziraphale, but that was something Aziraphale was going to have to figure out for himself.

Besides, Crowley had other things to worry about.

Thanks to Aziraphale’s gift, he still had some tricks up his sleeve. With Ligur destroyed and Hastur trapped in voicemail, Crowley wasted no time getting back to the book shop. There was nowhere else he’d rather go and no one else he’d rather be with, and if Aziraphale had found the Antichrist they maybe possibly still had a chance.

If only Aziraphale would answer his phone.

A block away from the shop, the smell of smoke hit him, followed by gut-deep dread.

Whenever Aziraphale needed him, Crowley always found him. He had found him in 1099 and 1666 and 1793 and 1941 and 2005, guided by that little angel-spark in the back of his head that never lied. When Crowley reached for it now, it was extinguished.

Instead, Aziraphale’s home was in flames.

“Where the Heaven are you, you idiot? I can’t find you!”

He spun in circles, an inferno on every side, hopeless, helpless.

“For _somebody’s_ sake, _where are you?_”

A high-pressured jet of water punched him to the floor and opened a gaping hole in his chest.

He should have locked Aziraphale in the Bentley and taken him to Alpha Centauri. He should never have left him. He knew damn well what happened to angels who asked questions.

“You’ve gone,” he realized, the hole ripping wider. The angel-shaped void in his head consumed everything but pain and rage, and he screamed out the rage until the only thing left was a mind-numbing ache.

It hurt more than anything Hell had ever done to him. It was worse than when he had Fallen, because this time he had been stripped of his love rather than Love, and he knew which one he could live without.

Crowley was a consummate actor. He tucked his souvenir in his jacket, picked himself off the floor, and sauntered out of the shop cool as anything.

In his heart of hearts, Crowley was an optimist. It was how he had gotten through the fourteenth century, and the Spanish Inquisition, and two world wars, and innumerable other human tragedies. It was how he had clawed himself out of a pool of boiling sulphur and why he had taken a chance and struck up a conversation with the Angel of the Eastern Gate. It was how he had survived falling in love with Aziraphale and why he had been incapable of giving up on him.

But even optimists had limits, and Crowley had just reached his. Even if he did manage, against all odds, to stop Armageddon and escape Hell’s _discipline_, what would be the point? As far as he was concerned, without Aziraphale, the world was as good as over already.

He was in his favourite pub, pissed out of his mind and waiting for the world to officially end, when the universe decided to throw him a bone. It came in the form of an angel-shaped mirage, waving drunkenly in the space between atoms. Though the drunken part was probably just on Crowley’s end.

“_Aziraphale_,” he breathed, the hole in his chest aching fiercely. “Are you here?”

“Good question, not certain. Never done this before,” the Aziraphale-mirage said, and it was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever heard. 

The world made sense again. The hole was filling in. Now, Crowley could face anything.

When all was said and done, Aziraphale stayed at Crowley’s place.

The bus ride was long enough that Crowley fell into a doze at some point. He hadn’t had a proper sleep in the past eleven years and he doubted we would get one tonight either. As the bus pulled to a stop, he woke with his head propped on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his familiar scent a balm for Crowley’s mind. He pulled himself upright with a twinge of embarrassment, but Aziraphale only smiled at him. It was a lovely smile, making his face crease in all sorts of interesting ways. Crowley was very glad Aziraphale had his body back.

He led the way into his flat, flicking on the lights with a snap of the fingers. “Watch out for Ligur,” he intoned, gesturing at the puddle in the office doorway.

Aziraphale inched over for a closer look. “Is that—”

“Holy water, yup. Told you it would come in handy. Probably have to move again; I’ll never get _eau-de-Ligur _out of the walls.”

For a long moment Aziraphale stood with his back to Crowley, staring down at Ligur’s remains. Off-kilter, Crowley hesitated. “You want anything? I think I’ve got a bottle of scotch somewhere that—”

Several things happened at once. Aziraphale made a harsh gesture, the mess disappeared, then Aziraphale was turning on his heel and striding towards Crowley with a very intense look on his face. Crowley had time to think ‘oh, fuck’, and then there were strong arms wrapping around him.

“Azira—!”

Aziraphale squeezed him in a bone-crushing hug that was possibly the best thing Crowley had felt in decades. He made a token protest, but didn’t even attempt to extricate himself.

“I’m so very glad you’re safe, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was muffled, his face pressed into Crowley’s shoulder. “I fear I’ve had the habit of assuming the worst of you, yet you’ve proven me wrong time and time again.”

The floodgates opened, and Crowley gasped as a wave of emotion crashed over him. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and squeezed like a boa constrictor.

“Things turned out for the best,” Aziraphale continued, “but I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about…about everything.” He tried to pull back but Crowley resisted, unwilling to give up the warm, soft press of their bodies so soon. “I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t believe that they were _all_ bad, that nothing I said would make a difference. Even the Metatron—”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley tucked his chin over Aziraphale’s solid shoulder. “I know. I _know_.” He took a deep breath, because his usual response to these kinds of conversations was a snarky insult and a quick exit, but he needed to say this. He needed Aziraphale to know. “Angel. I’m just glad you’re _alive_. When I couldn’t find you in the book shop…fire everywhere…” Embarrassingly, his voice broke. Aziraphale made a sympathetic noise and waited while Crowley wrangled his voice box under control. “I know what happens to angels who ask questions. I should never have left you.”

Aziraphale rubbed slow circles on his back. “It was all a terrible accident. But we’re together now.”

Crowley sniffled and nodded.

“Of course, our superiors will be wanting to change that. It’ll be hellfire for me.”

Crowley stiffened. “Holy water for me.”

They moved to the sofa. Aziraphale fiddled with the slip of paper with Agnes Nutter’s prophecy and peeked at him from the corner of his eye. “I think I’ve figured out what we need to do.”

_Clever angel_. “Go on, then. Impress me.”

As Aziraphale explained, Crowley’s eyebrows nearly merged with his fringe. It was an insane idea. Just the kind of thing a witch would come up with. He doubted anyone had ever attempted – or even thought of – doing something like it before, which was exactly why it would work.

They just had to figure out the actual mechanics of the thing.

“Maybe if you—”

“Just let me—”

“Wait!” Crowley took off his sunglasses and rubbed at his eyes. “We’re not going to explode, are we?”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed in consideration. “I shouldn’t think so. Not if we time it right.”

“You don’t _think_ so?”

“Well no one is possessing anyone! We’re just swapping atoms, when you think about it.”

“Right, sure, perfectly normal!”

“This is the best chance we’ve got, Crowley. Now, come here.”

With a grimace, Crowley shuffled closer and let Aziraphale take his hands.

“I may have been loath to admit it before,” Aziraphale admitted into the air between them, “but…I feel a connection to you, in my mind. It’s been there for so long that I forget about it most of the time. Do you know what I mean?”

That little Aziraphale-spark danced happily in the back of Crowley’s addled brain. “Ng—yeah, I – yeah.”

“Splendid. I think, my dear, if we focus on that, perhaps that will help…set the gears in motion, as it were.”

“Alright. No, wait!”

“What?”

“What if we get stuck partway?” An image popped unbidden into Crowley’s head, a half-Crowley-half-Aziraphale Frankenstein monster. His next question came out slightly hysterical. “What if we can’t change back?”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment, his eyes flicking over Crowley’s face. “I’d say the risk is worth it, wouldn’t you? It’s just a corporation.”

All of Crowley’s anxieties went quiet. He drank in Aziraphale’s beautiful, determined face and was reminded all over again why he loved this stupidly brave angel. “Right.” he took a deep breath. “Right. Okay.”

Aziraphale regarded him with calm fondness. “Ready, dear?”

Crowley nodded and closed his eyes.

“Perhaps you can describe what you’re thinking so I can follow at your pace,” Aziraphale recommended and Crowley snorted. _My pace_, _really?_ he thought.

Crowley cleared his throat and shifted self-consciously. “I’m, uh, focusing on our – our connection, in the back of my head. I’m thinking of, sort of, pouring myself into you, like I’m made of sand, just pouring all my pieces of sand into you. As my sand funnels out, yours funnels in—”

“Oh!”

Every atom of Crowley’s body was vibrating and coming apart, bits of himself breaking away. It was like jumping into a telephone line, except his body was jumping without him.

“It’s working!” Aziraphale exclaimed, his voice warped and distorted as his voice box changed.

Crowley opened his eyes to see his own shocked face staring back at him. “Agnes was right,” he said with Aziraphale’s voice.

Once the tingling stopped, they released each other with a shudder, taking stock of their corporations. Crowley patted himself down to make sure everything was in working order.

“My, this is quite discombobulating.”

Crowley agreed. He was a couple inches closer to the ground, for one thing. For another, everything felt so much warmer – it was the extra insulation, had to be. He walked an experimental circle and found his hips much less swingy than he was used to. “How are your hands so soft?” Crowley marvelled, smoothing his – Aziraphale’s – hands over each other.

“It’s called moisturizer, dear.” Crowley’s voice had never before sounded so prim. “How do you do that thing you do when you walk?”

He looked to find his corporation strutting about like a drunken giraffe. He sighed. “Yeah, that’s not gonna fly.”

They spent the rest of the night practicing being the other. Fortunately, six thousand years of friendship meant that they knew all the other’s mannerisms and vocal inflections by heart. It was the delivery that needed working on. Crowley knew Aziraphale was witty enough and brave enough to pull him off – and that was a turn of phrase he was not going to linger on, not if he wanted keep things professional while wearing his best friend’s corporation – he just hoped he could keep his cool in Heaven long enough to pull off Aziraphale’s polite stoicism.

When the sun rose, Crowley knew he had to leave.

“Be careful, dear,” Aziraphale said, which was just uncanny coming from Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley nodded and tried to swallow his anxiety. The idea of letting Aziraphale into Hell set off a thousand alarm bells in Crowley’s brain, but there were no other options. “Meet you in the park.” He turned to go.

“Crowley.”

“Yeah?”

“In case – in case this doesn’t…work…” His snake eyes were so unbearably tender with Aziraphale looking out of them, his fingers twisting each other in knots. “Which I’m sure it will, but just as a precaution, mind – in case it goes wrong, you should know—” Crowley’s heart began to race as Aziraphale struggled with his words. “That is, I feel I should tell you that I—”

“Stop,” Crowley said, desperate, and watched his own eyebrows form a pained curve. Crowley stepped back through the doorway and clutched Aziraphale’s arms. “Don’t. Not like this. This is going to work. It has to. So, tell me after, okay? Tell me with your own face.”

Aziraphale smiled with trembling lips. “Crowley.”

“If you tell me now,” Crowley growled, and the sound of Aziraphale’s voice so dark and rough was something he was not prepared for, “I am not going to be able to let you walk into Hell.”

“Okay.” Aziraphale’s breath left him in a nervous laugh. “Okay, dear. I’ll tell you after.”

Crowley nodded. “Good. Okay.” He turned and quickly walked away, not trusting himself to stay a second longer.

The bookshop was entirely restored, and Crowley took several moments to just bask in the sunlight filtering in through the windows, the smell of old books and cocoa surrounding him. He wondered if this was what Aziraphale had meant when he said that Tadfield felt loved.

They met in the park for ice cream. The angels got to them first.

They grabbed him from behind and had him gagged and restrained in seconds, all while pulling him away from Aziraphale, who hadn’t yet noticed the demons waiting for him. Crowley and Aziraphale had planned for this, but still Crowley struggled, heart pounding and voice muffled as he tried to warn Aziraphale of Hastur, lurking just off to the side. He could do nothing but watch as Aziraphale was smashed over the head with a crowbar.

The last thing he saw as the angels shoved him into their van was Aziraphale, prone on the ground, demons closing in on him.

The trip to Heaven was exceedingly unpleasant. He wasn’t surprised that the lot who approved of guns for moral arguments saw no problem with roughing up a tied and outnumbered captive. He groaned and curled in on himself when Sandalphon gave him a good punch in the gut.

“Felt good to do that again,” Sandalphon said to Uriel.

_Again?_ He stayed hunched over to hide the rage contorting his face.

They tied him to a chair in the middle of an immense, empty room with floor-to-ceiling windows, observing him with cool distaste. At least in Hell they did you the favour of hating you with real passion. Crowley looked around the expanse of nothingness with an impassive expression, and felt something settle inside of him for the first time in over six thousand years.

Crowley didn’t belong here and he didn’t want to.

He remained unaffected by Uriel’s disdain and Sandalphon’s apathy. He was unflinching and polite in response to Gabriel’s jovial contempt. _What would Aziraphale do?_ he asked himself, and remained calm in the face of a tornado of Hellfire while the angels skittered backwards.

What nearly broke him was the demon.

“Can I hit him?” they asked. “I’ve always wanted to hit an angel.”

The archangels appeared nonplussed by this request. “Go for it,” Sandalphon said.

Crowley’s rage simmered as the demon approach, fists clenched and eager. Aziraphale would never just give in to this sort of treatment. But he wouldn’t rip the demon’s head off like Crowley wanted to either.

_I dare you_, Crowley thought, unblinking, staring the demon down. He allowed his lips to tug into a mocking smirk, an expression he’d seen Aziraphale make once, when a couple of mafia thugs tried to threaten him into selling the book shop. It was a very effective look.

The demon’s confidence bled away. “I…should be getting back.”

_That’s what I thought. _

The differences between Heaven and Hell had never seemed more insignificant. Both sides run by bullies spoiling for a fight. It was the same message with different packaging and Crowley couldn’t wait to wash his hands of the lot of them, Upstairs and Down. He didn’t know how Aziraphale had managed to retain his positive outlook while working for these vindictive pricks.

“May we meet on a better occasion,” he said, with Hellfire dancing in his eyes, and imagined that occasion. It mostly involved Crowley with bruised knuckles and some Archangels with a few less teeth. Maybe some plucked wings and piles of blood-stained white feathers, though that was probably a step too far. Crowley may have Fallen, but he wasn’t a monster.

He could be a damn bastard though. All he had to do to pass it off as Aziraphale was wrap it up in a sunny disposition. It was one of Crowley’s favourite things about Aziraphale, that he could be a bit of a devil when the situation called for it. He figured an angel barbeque was the right type of situation.

The looks on their faces when Crowley roared like a Hellfire-breathing dragon were immensely satisfying. If the archangels were in the habit of using their urinary systems, he was certain all three of them would have pissed themselves.

“What _is_ he?” Uriel exclaimed and Crowley smiled Aziraphale’s smuggest smile.

They had no choice but to let him go.

The walk back to the main lobby felt longer than Crowley remembered, as he struggled not to break into a run. He forced himself to take measured steps and keep his hands clasped behind his back. His head felt like an overinflated balloon, anxiety pinching his neck to keep the pressure inside. It wasn’t until he stepped out of the elevator and saw his own corporation, fiddling with the tartan-lined collar of his jacket, that the pinch was released and he could deflate, dizzy with relief.

He kept his expression carefully blank as he stepped up to Aziraphale’s side, raking his eyes over him to make sure Hell had left him with all his appendages. Aziraphale, still in character, smirked and raised an eyebrow.

“You look a little toasted, Aziraphale.”

Crowley smiled, polite as you please. “Nothing I couldn’t handle, Crowley.”

They walked out into the world together. 

Lunch at the Ritz passed in an almost dreamlike state of bliss. Aziraphale was scintillating, his joy infectious and his affection free as he laid a hand on Crowley’s arm, or pressed their feet together, or looked at him warmly when Crowley laughed. Crowley found himself laughing often, defenseless against that affectionate gaze.

It was a brave new world. A world with no script and no set purpose. It was a liberating and terrifying prospect.

They went back to the shop, where Crowley expected to lose Aziraphale to his books for the next week. That was fine; he could take a nice long nap while he waited. It was worth it to see Aziraphale’s face transformed with pure blinding joy at the sight of his books, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Crowley said, pushing off from the desk he was leaning against. “I’m knackered and I’m sure you have inventory you want to get to.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, you’re right.”

He was almost at the door when Aziraphale called out.

“Wait! Please.”

Crowley turned to see Aziraphale reaching out to him. He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

Aziraphale lowered his hand to clasp in front of him. He lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders like he did for Important Conversations. “I have something to tell you.”

Crowley’s stomach went swimmy. “Oh?”

“I’ve imagined for a long time how I would tell you.” Aziraphale was smiling the way he did when he was very nervous. “I always knew it was impossible, or at least I thought it was, but still I’ve practiced. In front of a mirror.”

Crowley was frozen. He wished he were sitting down. He was pretty sure his heart wasn’t meant to beat quite so quickly.

Aziraphale began to pace. “I tried to tell you before – this morning, I mean – during our whole, ah, switcheroo, but, well, you said to tell you after, and I know we didn’t specify _when_ afterwards and I was going to say it at the Ritz, but that just seemed too public—”

This was unbearable. “Aziraphale,” Crowley choked.

He came to a stop, wring his hands. “Oh, and I’ve messed it up already.”

Like jerking out of sleep paralysis, Crowley lunged for him, capturing his hands. “You haven’t messed up anything.” He blinked and his sunglasses were gone so that Aziraphale could see the earnestness in his eyes.

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath, looking down at their clasped hands. With his thumbs, Crowley rubbed soothing circles over his knuckles, and Aziraphale sighed and looked up with shining eyes. He looked like he was on the knife’s edge of terror and exhilaration. “Crowley. I love you. I am _in_ love with you. I don’t think I could ever voice quite how essential you are to me.”

There was no frame of reference for the emotions Crowley felt in that moment. It was one thing to suspect something, to be sure of it even, and quite another to hear that something be undeniably confirmed. It was a bit like how he’d felt when the Angel of the Eastern Gate told him he’d given away his flaming sword. It was a bit like how he’d felt stretching his wings yesterday for the first time in millennia. It reminded him of the first time Aziraphale had hugged him, and the time they’d kissed, and the rush he got when he made Aziraphale smile. It was the ache of arousal too-long ignored, the satisfaction of someone giving in to a really good temptation, and the shock of an unexpected orgasm. It was the feeling of being the perfect amount of drunk, of waking up from a refreshing nap, of hearing his name on Aziraphale’s smiling lips.

It was all these things and none of them, an indescribable combination of elation, disbelief, and serenity. It was ineffable.

Crowley’s eyes stung. He pinched himself. When he didn’t wake up his lips split into a huge, goofy smile. “I knew you liked me.”

Aziraphale laughed, his eyes crinkling and spilling over with tears. “_Crowley_.”

“I think my chest is going to explode.”

Aziraphale sobbed out another laugh, lifting their joint hands to press a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles. “You _demon_.”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s stupid, beautiful face in his hands and kissed him. It was clumsy and too wet and they couldn’t stop smiling, but perfect nonetheless. When they pulled apart, they were panting for air they didn’t need. “Of course, I love you, Aziraphale. How could I not? Can’t you feel it?”

“Oh, Crowley, there’s love around you all the time.” Aziraphale was smiling radiantly, his cheeks damp, his eyelashes sparkling with tears. “That doesn’t mean I can tell what it all means.”

Crowley dried his cheeks with his thumbs. “Ninety percent of it is for you.”

“And the remaining ten percent?”

Crowley hummed in consideration and ducked down to kiss him again. Aziraphale melted, his arms going around his shoulders. “The Bentley,” Crowley said against Aziraphale’s lips. “Really good wine,” he said against Aziraphale’s cheek. “Terrorizing my plants,” he murmured against his jaw. “Definitely wiling,” he whispered against the side of his neck, and Aziraphale shivered and pressed closer.

One of Aziraphale’s hands slid into Crowley’s hair while the other ignited a burning trail down his chest and abdomen to stop at his waist. “Is that all, dear?”

Crowley ached under Aziraphale’s hands. His breath was coming quick against Aziraphale’s skin. The familiar smell of him had taken on a new note that was lighting up the pleasure centres in Crowley’s human-shaped brain. “There might be one other thing,” he said roughly, and drew his tongue up Aziraphale’s neck to his ear, Lust exploding in his mouth.

Aziraphale moaned, high and shocked, his hands clenching and pulling them closer still, so that their hips came into contact. “I want you,” he gasped, right by Crowley’s ear. “I can hardly stand how I want you.”

“_Fuck_,” Crowley whimpered, and seized Aziraphale’s face to kiss him properly, deeply, Aziraphale’s mouth opening on a gasp. Head spinning, Crowley urged Aziraphale backwards, pushing until he had him pinned against a post with their legs slotted together. Aziraphale was hard against his thigh and Crowley’s knees went weak at the feel of him.

“Ohh, Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale sighed and they were kissing again, Aziraphale’s hands sliding down his back, making Crowley arch and groan into his mouth.

“Not too fast?”

“I’ve thought about it plenty long enough, actually,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley made a mental note to return to _that_ later. It was impossible to think with Aziraphale’s fingers creeping under the edge of his jacket. “Plus, I’m quite certain Hell won’t be giving you any trouble.”

“Neither will Heaven.” He leaned in and they were kissing again, Aziraphale’s lips soft and clever against his. His skin was on fire. He burned everywhere Aziraphale touched. A good burn, a liquid heat he hadn’t felt since they’d touched like this in 1208 with sweet smoke on their tongues. Aziraphale’s hands squeezed his arse and Crowley had to break out of the kiss with a groan, his trapped erection rubbing against Aziraphale’s hip. Aziraphale hummed like he’d just tasted the most exquisite crème brulée.

“Scrumptious,” he growled, and Crowley’s knees decided to abruptly quit, no goodbye, no two-weeks-notice. 

Rather than landing in a heap on the ground, Crowley found himself falling back onto the well-used couch in Aziraphale’s back room. Aziraphale stood over him with an incendiary look, sweeping his eyes down Crowley’s sprawled body.

“You’ve always been so maddeningly beautiful,” he said, and knelt on the cushions on either side of Crowley’s thighs.

Crowley didn’t feel particularly beautiful at the moment, gaping and panting like a fish, but he felt himself heat at the compliment. His grabbed Aziraphale by the hips, swallowing at the sight of his erection deforming the line of his trousers, and sat up for a kiss.

Aziraphale met him partway, kissing him deeply while his hands moved to push Crowley’s jacket off his shoulders. Breath catching, Crowley wriggled out of it and they both fell into a race to discard as many clothes as possible. By the time Aziraphale had ridded Crowley of his scarf and shirt, Crowley was still working on Aziraphale’s button-up.

“Too many buttons,” he hissed and miracled the whole lot away.

“Cheater,” Aziraphale accused and gave Crowley no time to defend himself, as the next moment he was skimming his soft, plump hands down Crowley’s bare chest and Crowley quite lost the ability to speak.

“_Ng_,” he managed, head tilting back when his nipples were plucked experimentally. With no chance to recover, Aziraphale descended on his neck, kissing and sucking a trail along his carotid. Coming in your pants was supposed to be embarrassing to humans, but Crowley was pretty sure that was what Aziraphale was aiming for with his current assault. “Ah, _angel_—!” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s thighs and whined when a sucking kiss targeted a particularly sensitive section of his neck.

Aziraphale nipped his earlobe. “Hm?”

Rallying, Crowley slid his hands up Aziraphale’s thighs to get to his fly. “How are you so good at this?”

“I’ve – ah – read a _lot_ of books, dear. _Ohh_, Crowley.”

Crowley had managed to pull down his trousers and underthings and, with great care, took his erection in hand. It was hot and velvety-hard, the head exposed and dribbling with Crowley’s touch, and Crowley felt his own cock twitch sympathetically in his tight jeans.

Crowley had always scoffed at the concept of sex being some monumental, blessed thing, but with Aziraphale trusting and vulnerable in his hand, he was reconsidering. Under the need raging through his body, he recognized this as something special, something to be cherished.

“_Aziraphale_,” he choked, his body and mind too full to comprehend, ready to fly apart.

“Oh, love.” Aziraphale disappeared the rest of their clothes and spread his knees, sinking deeper to rub their cocks together. Clumsy and inexperienced though they were, the friction alone set off fireworks up Crowley’s spine.

Crowley cried out and pressed his face to Aziraphale’s chest. His arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s ribs, his nails digging into his back as their hips moved together, their cocks sliding slick and hot between them. He ached and throbbed with each slow grind, precome leaking out of him.

“Oh, _yes_,” Aziraphale groaned, his hips moving faster and Crowley fell back against the couch, pulling Aziraphale with him to feel the bulk of his body pressed luxuriously against his torso.

Under his weight, Crowley felt safe and loved, and the pleasure in his pelvis pooled hot and urgent. He writhed, skin sparking everywhere they touched, his hips bucking up mindlessly. With each slide of Aziraphale’s erection against his, his desperation mounted. “Ah, ah, _fuck_.” They were both breathing quick and shallow, the muscles in Aziraphale’s arse clenching under Crowley’s hands with each thrust.

Aziraphale let out a whine, his hands tightening in Crowley’s hair, pulling his head back for a kiss that was mostly breath, panted hot and desperate between them. Crowley’s eyes rolled back, his abdominals clenching and balls drawing tight. Pinned to the sofa, he could do nothing but twist and shake as the pleasure built sharply.

“Yes, yes, angel, don’t stop, don’t –” His breath cut off as his orgasm swelled and crested, crashing over him. His back bowed and his cock twitched, spending between their bellies. Shocked, keening noises got caught in his throat, and Aziraphale’s thrusts grew tight and erratic, a moan with every exhale. His dug his nails into Aziraphale’s arse and thighs, urging him on.

“Oh, _fuck_,” Aziraphale gasped, voice wrecked. Still thrumming with pleasure, Crowley wrapped Aziraphale in his arms to feel the way his entire body surged as he came. The feel of his cock twitching against his was blindingly erotic, and Crowley swore and shuddered along with him, their ejaculate painting his heaving stomach. Breath short, Aziraphale circled his hips slowly, drawing it out, pleasure crackling between them, and Crowley moaned again, drawing him into a luxurious kiss.

He swept his hands up and down Aziraphale’s back as they calmed, their breathing slowing. Crowley pressed haphazard kisses along his shoulder while Aziraphale’s nails scratched pleasantly at the nape of his neck. Once the last of the shivery aftershocks had faded, Crowley tipped his head back with a sigh to look into Aziraphale’s face. He was flushed and his eyes were heavy-lidded, tenderness in every line of his face, so soft it made Crowley’s chest ache, a reminder of the hole that had been there only yesterday.

“I really love you,” he blurted and watched in awe as Aziraphale’s face transformed, joy radiating from him. He was a sun and Crowley would happily go blind staring at him.

“I really love you, too.” He pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead and shifted. “Even when you’re all sticky.”

Crowley’s throat was tight, a kiss-sized damp spot on his forehead. “If this is a dream, don’t wake me up, ‘kay?”

Aziraphale sat back on his heels, grimacing at the mess between them. Crowley felt cold without his body covering him like a blanket. “You’re not dreaming, dear.”

“Probably wouldn’t be so tired if I was.” His brain felt oddly full. A lot had happened in forty-eight hours.

Aziraphale kissed him again and got up, padding nude towards the kitchenette’s sink. Crowley watched him run a cloth under the tap and wipe his stomach. Crowley simply miracled himself clean, and then regretted it when Aziraphale brought a cloth back to where Crowley was sprawled, obviously intending on cleaning Crowley by hand. “Oh.”

“Already did it.”

“Of course, silly me.” Aziraphale folded the cloth in his hands.

Crowley nearly asked him to clean him anyway, but that would be ridiculous. He yawned and then pushed himself to his feet to look for his jeans.

“Will you be asleep long?”

“Wasn’t planning on it. You can wake me up whenever if you—” _miss me, need me, want me_, “—whenever you want.”

“Oh, good, yes. Quite. Just…”

So far Crowley had located his shirt and jacket, but no trousers. “What?”

“Well, you mentioned that your flat smells of that terrible Ligur creature, so I thought you could…stay here for now.” The cloth was a tight ball in Aziraphale’s hands, dripping water onto the floor.

With his jacket hanging by two fingers, Crowley swung his arm up to whip the jacket over his shoulder. “You want me to sleep on your couch?”

“No, no, obviously not. I have a bed upstairs. Which is where your trousers are, incidentally.” His eyes flicked shyly down and back up Crowley’s body, then away, then back again.

It took Crowley a moment to remember how words worked. “Alright.”

Aziraphale perked up. “Oh, really?”

“Sure, why not?” he said, smooth and care-free, but mostly sleepy. “Unless your bed’s lumpy. I won’t stand for a lumpy bed. Or one of those really soft ones that trap you in the middle.”

Aziraphale’s smile was almost impish. “I’m sure you’ll find it just right.”

Upstairs, the rest of their clothing was folded neatly on a bed with – predictably – tartan covers. Crowley conjured up some black silk pajamas, then found Aziraphale in nothing but his undergarments, clutching his clothing in front of him. He had the same look on his face that he got when he wanted to ask if Crowley was going to finish his dessert. 

“You could nap with me, if you want,” Crowley offered, uncertain. He pulled back the covers and sat heavily on the mattress, testing it with a little bounce. Yes, this would do nicely.

Cautious hope lit up Aziraphale’s eyes. “I don’t like sleeping.”

Crowley wasn’t sure what to say to that. Now that the immediate threat on their lives was passed, his whole body ached for sleep.

“Perhaps, if you don’t mind, I could just…lie beside you?”

Crowley peered at him under heavy eyelids. “Whatever you like, angel.” He patted the mattress next to him. “Your bed.”

With a happy wriggle, Aziraphale placed his clothes on top of a pile of books on top of a chair, then turned to his wardrobe. Pulling up the covers, Crowley watched Aziraphale dig through his clothes, muttering to himself, until he pulled out a beige gown thing with a quiet exclamation of victory.

“Knew this was in there somewhere.”

It was an old nightshirt, probably from the 19th century at the latest, which Aziraphale slipped over his head with some difficulty. He shuffled around the bed and got under the covers gingerly, the mattress shifting. Crowley turned on his side to face him, eyeing the way he lay on his back with his hands clasped over his stomach. Aziraphale turned his head to look at him.

“What?”

“Aren’t we rather far apart, my dear?”

“Er—”

The mattress juddered and heaved as Aziraphale squirmed his way closer. Crowley held his breath and tucked into Aziraphale’s side. Humans had a word for this. He was pretty sure this was called cuddling.

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his hair. “Sleep well.”

Crowley fell asleep feeling very loved indeed.


	16. New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found himself whistling while watering his plants. Singing along to every love song on the radio. Watching romantic comedies when they were on the telly. He was going soft and he didn’t even mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is the end. This work has been a labour of love. Please enjoy this final chapter <3

**New Beginning **

Their lives post-Armageddon were a work in progress. As liberating as it was to be out from under Hell’s thumb, Crowley couldn’t help but feel slightly adrift. He didn’t have any assignments, no long-term projects, no reports to write or presentations to prepare for. He didn’t even have to do any wiling unless he wanted to. He found himself wondering how he was supposed to fill his days when he was free all the time. He liked driving, and watching films, and listening to music, and bullying his plants – although his threats were half-hearted at best these days. Other than that, Crowley didn’t really have any hobbies.

He started wondering about who he really was, as a person, other than a guy who looked cool and had lots of money. How much of him was because of his job and how much was just _him_?

The question plagued him for two weeks before he burst into the book shop in a huff one afternoon after spending fifty hours watching every single James Bond film back-to-back. “Who am I?” he bellowed, badly startling two customers and one angel.

Aziraphale quickly ushered the humans out, citing ‘my friend’s breakdown’ as his excuse.

“Lunatic,” one of the humans muttered at him on the way out, which Crowley supposed was one answer to his question.

Aziraphale set out tea and biscuits so that they could ‘discuss this like civilized people’, by which point Crowley had calmed down enough to sit. “Now, what seems to be the problem, dear?”

Crowley picked up his mug. He put it down without taking a sip. His fingers tapped against the table.

A hand reached out to lay over top of his and Crowley flinched. The hand quickly withdrew and Crowley grimaced. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Perhaps we need something stronger,” Aziraphale offered, and went to fetch the wine.

They shared a bottle to take the edge off, and so Crowley could organize his thoughts into something resembling coherence.

“The way I see it,” he began, while Aziraphale nibbled on a chocolate biscuit, “there are two options. Either we were meant to stop Armageddon or we weren’t, right? It was supposed to happen, or it wasn’t.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“If God planned it this way, then did I Fall just to help stop the world from ending? Why me? And what am I supposed to do now? I’m barely a demon, officially anyway. Definitely not an angel. Not human either.” Crowley leaned forward. “And if we _weren’t_ supposed to stop Armageddon, then we majorly fucked up the Plan and God hasn’t done anything. Did She even notice?” He spread his arms wide. “Does She even care? No one’s heard from Her in ages – for all we know She got bored and we’re on our own.”

Aziraphale stared at him, munching on his biscuit and thinking. Crowley waited impatiently. After wiping the crumbs from his fingers, Aziraphale sat back with a sigh. “I feel similarly,” he admitted.

“You – what?” Crowley had expected an argument, denial. He had expected Aziraphale to squirm in discomfort and refuse to encourage his blasphemy.

“Have you ever felt homesick?”

“What?” This conversation wasn’t going at all how Crowley had thought it would.

“It’s an illness humans get when they’re away from home and miss it terribly.”

At a loss, Crowley answered honestly. “If you’re asking if I miss Hell, it’s a big no from me.”

“I don’t miss Heaven, either. I don’t miss how empty and cold it is.”

“Angel—"

“Heaven pushed me down, Crowley, in their attempts to make me fit their mold. I don’t miss it. But without them I feel weightless, directionless.”

Crowley nodded. That he could understand. “Hell was bad, but at least I always knew where I stood with them.”

“Precisely.” Aziraphale leaned forward, and this time when he reached out tentatively Crowley took his hand without hesitation. “I don’t have the answers to your questions Crowley. I don’t think anyone does.”

Crowley nodded glumly. That, at least, wasn’t a surprise. It was enough, though, just to have someone to sympathize with him.

“I do have some books that may help you, though.”

Crowley groaned. “I don’t want any of your self-help books, angel. I know you use those just to fend off customers.”

Aziraphale patted his hand before releasing him to stand. “They’re not self-help books, dear. We may not be human, but we are dealing with a very human problem.”

“Which is?”

“The meaning of life!”

Crowley crossed his arms and slumped in his seat while Aziraphale muttered to himself and poked through his bookshelves. “It would be easier to find things if you actually organized them.”

“Oh, hush, I know where everything is,” came Aziraphale’s disembodied voice.

“You know I don’t read books!” he called.

Aziraphale returned with a small stack of books in his hands and an expression that said Crowley was full of shit. “I happen to know about your little collection of books, so I know that’s not true.”

“My – did you _snoop_ through my things, angel?”

“I wasn’t _snooping. _I came across it by accident the morning we swapped bodies.”

“While you were snooping,” Crowley insisted, grinning.

Aziraphale dropped the books into Crowley’s arms with more force than was really necessary. “I recommend reading these, then we can talk about the philosophies you like best. They’ll have to be adapted, obviously, for our unique circumstances.”

Resigned, Crowley inspected the books. One of them looked especially old. “You trust me with these?”

“I wouldn’t give them to you if I didn’t.”

Flattered, Crowley’s lips twisted despite himself. “Thanks, I guess.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, now that you’ve disrupted my business hours, I don’t see much point in reopening. What do you say to some lunch?”

Crowley read, because he didn’t have much else to do and because he found the idea of him and Aziraphale being in their own little book club unexpectedly endearing. He read about Plato and Aristotle, about Epicureanism, Stoicism, Kantianism, Nihilism, and Confucianism. He read until he couldn’t keep all the different names straight, though some of them he knew already. Philosophy was one of his and Aziraphale’s more common conversational topics.

What made their book club discussions different was that they were personal. They weren’t discussing morality and meaning in general terms, but how they applied to themselves. It was difficult, and scary, to talk about things like feelings and desires and fears. But they were managing. They’d swept too much under the rug of their friendship for too long – the rug was a tripping hazard with all its dust bunnies, dirt spilling out from under it. It would take a while to clean up, but they had time.

They were easing into their new reality slowly. They had both spent so long wanting the impossible, that reaching for it now still felt like a crime. Their handful of times having sex since that first, relief-frenzied coupling wasn’t enough to erase six thousand years of old habits. Crowley forgot, still, that they could be together without consequence, every reminder a shock and awe of what was possible now. Things like sitting closer on a park bench, Crowley’s arm warm against Aziraphale’s shoulders. Walking closer after a night out, hands brushing with each stride. Aziraphale’s blatant lack of denial when humans called them friends, or boyfriends, or partners. The label didn’t matter, only the meaning behind it. Crowley didn’t think a label could encompass everything they were to each other.

“Did you really not know?” They were in Crowley’s bed, the morning light filtering in through the curtains. Aziraphale was reading, had been all night by the looks of it. Crowley had just woken from the nightmarish thought that Aziraphale might have died in the book shop fire without knowing that Crowley loved him. The hole in his chest had left a scar and now it ached dully.

Aziraphale turned a page. “Know what, dear?”

“That I love you.” Crowley was still getting used to saying those taboo words.

“Ah.” He put his book on the bedside table, took off his reading glasses, and scooched under the covers so that they could face each other. “I had strong suspicions, but I tried not to think on it overmuch. It just made things…complicated.”

“When did you suspect?”

Aziraphale smiled, eyes going hazy with the memory. “1941. You saved my books,” he said wonderingly.

Crowley snorted. “Really? That’s what tipped you off?”

“It was such a thoughtful thing to do, and yet you did it so casually. You knew me so well that it was instinctual to you. No one else knows me half as well. How far off was I?”

Without his sunglasses, mere inches between them, Crowley felt exposed, vulnerable. He also knew that he could trust Aziraphale. “’bout a millennium. I realized it in 868. You hugged me,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale’s face made that scrunchy smile like a satanic nun had just told him the antichrist had lovely little toesie-wosies.

“Don’t do that,” Crowley groaned, but let Aziraphale tug him closer until his head rested on Aziraphale’s chest. “It wasn’t even about the hug, but the fact that you cared enough to get that close to me. To touch a demon.”

“I didn’t touch you much at all after that.”

“I didn’t want you to. I spent decades denying I felt anything, and even longer ignoring it. You know how much trouble a demon can get in for feeling love?”

“I do, rather.” Soft fingertips trailed up and down Crowley’s back. They were silent for a while, as the thin beam of sunlight crept through the room. “I don’t know when exactly I fell in love with you,” Aziraphale said dreamily. “It was so gradual. I liked you right from the start—"

“Knew it.”

“—not that I admitted it, even to myself. I think I realized it some time in the late 1800s.”

“I was asleep then.”

“I was so angry with you for asking me for holy water. I started to wonder why I was so angry. I thought you wanted to use it to leave me, and I realized I couldn’t bear the thought of the world without you.”

Crowley wrapped his arm more securely around Aziraphale’s waist. “I told you I didn’t want it for that.”

“I know. But you were so gloomy for most of that century—”

“Aziraphale." Crowley pushed onto one elbow to look him in the eye. “I would never do that to you.”

Aziraphale smiled and reached up to brush the hair out of Crowley’s face. “I know that now. But, back then, I couldn’t help but worry. And then during the first world war so many people lost their loved ones to senseless battle, and it terrified me that the same could happen to us. I searched for you on the battlefield.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s heart ached. “You didn’t tell me you actually fought in that war.”

Aziraphale nodded, taking Crowley’s hand and holding it against his chest. “I was pretending to be a chaplain, but yes I was there. I never found you.”

“I wasn’t even in Europe at the time.”

“I’m glad. Between my anger over the holy water and my fear of losing you to another human war…I knew that I loved you deeply.”

“And then I saved your books.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Yes. It was quite discombobulating, realizing that, in some capacity, you loved me back. Terrifying, really.”

“The whole drive back I thought you’d had a stroke.”

He laughed. “Almost, dear.”

“And…in 1208? When you were on disciplinary leave?”

“You’re full of questions this morning.”

He was always full of questions. He had just finally found the courage to voice them. It was much harder to pose questions when he knew he would actually get answers.

When Aziraphale spoke, his voice was quiet and he squeezed Crowley close. “I was in such a state of confusion that night. I was questioning things I hadn’t dared before, Gabriel had suspended me from work, and then there you were, the only being who had bothered to be kind to me. I thought for certain I had ruined everything when you pulled away. Although I was grateful you did, the next day.”

“Angel, pulling away from you was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but I knew you weren’t in your right mind. I would never have forgiven myself for taking advantage of you like that.”

“And here I’ve been, thinking all along that I was taking advantage of you.”

Crowley pressed a kiss to his chest and dragged his fingers down to his hip. “I thought about that night a lot, afterwards. It, uh, woke something inside me.”

“Oh, my.” His voice had gone breathy. He shifted to tangle their legs. “I kept your sunglasses, you know. The ones you left behind. Sentimental, I suppose.”

Rolling on top of him, Crowley placed a line of kisses up his sternum and along the side of his neck. “Souvenir?” he whispered against his jaw.

Aziraphale tilted his head to bring their lips together with a happy high. They kissed languidly, their hips making slow circles while their hands wandered over pajama-clad skin. They grew hard against each other, and Crowley spread his legs and rolled his hips to drag their erections together. Aziraphale groaned and clutched at Crowley’s waist, his thumbs sweeping enticingly over Crowley’s abdomen.

“I wanted to do this to you that night,” Crowley said roughly, pressing their foreheads together, nudging his nose against Aziraphale’s. “You slid your hands up my back and I thought I would die just from that.”

Aziraphale brought his lips to his ear. “Like this?” He spread his hands at the small of Crowley’s back, his fingers slotting into the notches of Crowley’s spine, and dragged his hands up to the base of Crowley’s neck.

Crowley gasped, his hips pressing down automatically, rubbing them together deliciously. “_Yes_. And then you kissed my neck and I swear I nearly came.”

“Like this?” His lips sucked burning kisses from ear to shoulder.

Crowley’s eyes rolled back, his hips stuttering. “_Yesss_.”

Without warning, Aziraphale flipped them, pushing Crowley into the mattress. His kisses continued from Crowley’s shoulder, along his collarbone, and to the hollow at the base of his neck, while his perfectly manicured nails dragged up his torso.

“_Angel_.”

With his pajama shirt rucked up under his arms, Aziraphale’s lips were free to continue their path down Crowley’s sternum, his fingers circling his nipples. Crowley’s back arched, his ribcage heaving. Aziraphale made his way down the hollow of Crowley’s stomach, over his navel, and lower, pausing with his lips against the band of Crowley’s pajama bottoms. He tucked his fingers under the fabric and looked up, his eyes a warm, liquid blue.

Crowley swore weakly, his hips squirming and his cock twitching.

“1793.”

“Wha—”

Aziraphale shifted further down the bed, breathing hotly over Crowley’s trapped erection. “I wanted to do this to you.”

“Oh, G—” He clawed at the sheets. “Your calves nearly did me in, in 1793. The _hose_.”

Aziraphale hummed like he’d just tasted a black forest cake, and delicately drew his tongue over the satin covering Crowley’s cock. Crowley exhaled harshly, his knees falling open. Aziraphale did it again, sweeping his tongue from base to tip until the fabric was soaked with saliva and precome, Crowley biting his lip to keep in the whimpers.

Aziraphale pulled on the elastic waistband. “May I?”

“_Anything_,” Crowley wheezed.

“Goodness.” Aziraphale stretched the elastic up and over his cock, tugging his bottoms down to his ankles so that Crowley could splay out, shameless. He was so hard he couldn’t think of anything except the all-consuming need to have Aziraphale touching him.

“You too,” Crowley begged, tugging at his beige nightshirt.

Aziraphale stripped quickly, pushing Crowley back down when he tried to help. “Ah, ah,” he chastised, and settled nude between Crowley’s legs. Crowley saw him lick his lips, could feel his breath against his aching cock, and his nails dug into the sheets.

“_Aziraphale_.”

Two soft fingers encircled the base of his cock and positioned him for the tip of Aziraphale’s pink tongue, which drew a wet line up the underside.

“_Ng_—” Crowley gritted his teeth, his heels digging into the mattress.

“We had crepes and the way you were looking at me…”

“You – you’re indecent – ah – when you eat crepes – _fuck_.”

Aziraphale made a meal out of him, teasing the sensitive spot under the head of his cock for the amuse-bouche, carefully sucking on his balls for the appetizer. Crowley’s hips trembled with the effort of not bucking up against him, the sheets creaking with the strain of his grip. All the while, Aziraphale made approving hums, his free hand smoothing up and down his hip and thigh. Just the sight of him was enough to put Crowley dangerously close to the edge. He wasn’t at all sure he was going to make it to the main course.

Aziraphale’s tongue swept over his slit and Crowley jerked hard, pleasure spiking. “_Ah_!” He squeezed his eyes shut, his orgasm surging up.

Around the base of his cock, Aziraphale’s fingers constricted tightly, cutting it off.

“Fuck!”

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale said sweetly. “I wasn’t finished yet.”

Crowley writhed, his toes curling as he came down from the edge. “_Fuck,_” he said again, feelingly. “You bastard.”

Aziraphale clucked at him then swallowed him down.

Crowley’s legs jerked, his hips bucked, held down by Aziraphale’s weight. A mortifying sob tore from his throat, but Crowley was too busy watching his cock disappear between Aziraphale’s lips to care. He was going to fly apart. He gripped Aziraphale’s shoulder, while his other hand tangled with Aziraphale’s, knuckles going white.

Aziraphale’s head bobbed, his tongue hot and wet and clumsy against his shaft, and it was too good, too much. Crowley couldn’t stop it. “Azira—”

Aziraphale sucked and bobbed and swallowed. Crowley thrashed and hissed and came, his body surging. Toes curling, abdomen contracting, Crowley spilled down his throat, clutching Aziraphale’s hand, fighting to get as close as possible. It seemed to go on for a small eternity, leaving him limp and twitching against the sheets while Aziraphale nuzzled at him and pressed kisses to his thighs.

“You’ve ruined me,” Crowley croaked, shakily running his fingers through white curls.

Aziraphale’s lips were swollen and red, his face flushed, his eyes a little wild. His breaths came quick and he eagerly crawled up the bed at Crowley’s weak tugging. “I love you very much,” he said simply, and Crowley kissed him to ignore the prickling in his eyes. Aziraphale was hard as anything against Crowley’s stomach, breathy, needy sounds escaping him as they kissed.

“Wanna do that to you,” Crowley mumbled, reaching between them and cradling his cock.

Aziraphale whined and sagged against him. “_Please_.”

Crowley wasted no time getting Aziraphale on his back, had his mouth on him in seconds. He wasn’t as strong as the angel; he couldn’t deny him or drag it out. One day he’d manage it. When the lust wasn’t this burning, panicked force, he would map every inch of Aziraphale’s skin, inside and out, naming every body part he’d imagined lavishing over the centuries. He’d start with fingers, then with tongue, until Aziraphale was squirming and desperate. Then he’d keep going until Aziraphale couldn’t speak, until he forgot his own name, forgot about angels and demons and ineffable plans. Only then, when nothing existed for them but pleasure and need and love, then Crowley would ease him over the edge and hold him as he fell.

For now, Crowley was sucking Aziraphale down and putting his tongue to good use. He fluttered and swirled and wrapped and squeezed, going lightheaded with the taste and smell of him, desperate for every pleasured sound he made. Aziraphale’s fingers scrabbled against the sheets and Crowley tugged them to his head, groaning when his fingers tangled in his hair.

“Oh, Crowley, darling, _yes_, oh please—”

Aziraphale’s knees drew up and Crowley surged closer, tucking his shoulders under Aziraphale’s plush thighs. He did a particularly interesting flutter with his tongue and Aziraphale’s thighs clenched around his head, his stomach jiggling as his hips jerked. Crowley seized overflowing handfuls of his arse, looking up to meet his wide, hazy eyes.

“Oh, _Crowley_—”

His cock twitched in Crowley’s mouth and Crowley growled, swallowing him deeper. Aziraphale’s head snapped back, his mouth falling open, and he came hot and sudden in Crowley’s mouth. Crowley sucked him until his cries sounded more like whimpers, then slowly pulled off, his throat raw and empty. He buried his face in the soft fat of his stomach, his hands sweeping soothingly up and down his sides while Aziraphale shivered and twitched.

When Aziraphale tugged on his hair, he slithered up his body for more kissing. He didn’t think he’d ever get enough of that.

Tangled in each other’s bodies, they didn’t get up for the rest of the day.

It took time, but eventually the near-painful urgency of their relationship faded into something grounding and deep and sure. They could dance over their carpet without stumbling, and when they came across a forgotten bump, they didn’t ignore it. It was worth the effort of lifting the heavy, six-thousand-year-old fabric to clean out the dust. It got easier, every time, to be vulnerable and open and honest with each other. To reminisce and laugh about the past.

They tried new things together, things that made them feel human and free. They took dancing lessons, stumbling over each others’ feet, clutching each other close, laughing until they could hardly stand. They tried baking, weighing ingredients and kneading dough and getting flour in each other’s hair. They went to new restaurants, and theatres, and art exhibitions, just like they used to, but now they held hands while doing it. Crowley was particularly fond of using PDA to make people annoyed and jealous.

All Crowley had to do was press a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple to make him stutter and giggle and Crowley felt like the luckiest bastard in the universe. He could saunter up and hug Aziraphale from behind and Aziraphale would melt in his arms. He could throw his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder or waist and Aziraphale would look at him like his own personal miracle. Crowley was besotted.

He found himself whistling while watering his plants. Singing along to every love song on the radio. Watching romantic comedies when they were on the telly. He’d seen an ad for art supplies and was contemplating trying his hand at painting. He was going soft and he didn’t even mind.

He still itched for the odd spot of wiling, every now and again. Delayed buses and spam emails and those online bots that made indecipherable comments on social media posts. Data plans for mobile phones, software updates that deliberately slowed down your laptop, and mechanical parts in toasters that were designed to fail just after the warranty expired. Crowley enjoyed keeping humans on their toes. Sometimes Aziraphale would thwart him, but mostly he would just give him a playful swat on the bum and call him a menace, which was no deterrent at all.

He still had questions with no answers, but he was coming to peace with that. He didn’t know if he had some ingrained purpose. He didn’t know if his Fall was part of some ineffable Plan. He didn’t know if said Plan even existed. He didn’t care.

Humans had lots of ideas on what gave life its meaning – they had been thinking about it for as long as they had existed. The idea that Crowley liked best was that of finding meaning for oneself. In a world of chaos and randomness, with Good and Evil, as Crowley knew them, no more than a farce, Crowley could decide what was important. What gave his life meaning was making Aziraphale happy, and enjoying the best humans had to offer, and driving so fast that speed cameras gave error readings.

It was time to let go of old questions. He had more important ones to focus on. Like whether Aziraphale had ever seen the aurora borealis. Or whether he’d be interested in travelling this new world with Crowley and finding all the little differences. Had he ever considered living by the sea? How much space would he need for his books, hypothetically? And was it okay if Crowley measured the size of his ring finger, no reason at all, why do you ask?

They were on their own side, and it was exactly where Crowley wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who have left me comments and kudos as I was working on this, I couldn't have done it without you! Thank you for your encouragement even when I went months without updates. This is my second longest fic - my longest in this fandom - and I'm so happy to share it with all you GO fans. 
> 
> Keep being awesome.


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